


We All Fall Down

by CyberQueens



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (that's right Gwen has a mom I don't care what canon says), Angst, F/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Non-Linear Narrative, Rating May Change, Resurrection, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-11 22:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18433697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberQueens/pseuds/CyberQueens
Summary: Canon divergent for 4x11 onward. Gwen is mortally wounded during the Southrons’ attack. Meanwhile, in Camelot, Arthur is set to marry Mithian, Agravaine plots with Morgana to break the king, and Merlin dreams of Avalon.





	1. No One

**Author's Note:**

> As my other WIPs are going to have to be put on the back-burner for a while until I sort out RL shit, I have decided to do the only reasonable, rational thing, which is to start posting another WIP. Because what's better than dragging out two stories over the course of many years? That's right. Dragging out _three_. (Also, I have no self-control, and I just don't want you guys to forget me, okay?)
> 
> A big, huge thank you goes to @inlandterritory, who unfailingly cheers me on, and who was nice enough to read through the first few chapters of this fic, then assured me that they are not, in fact, a giant flop. Girl, as always, you're an inspiration. 
> 
> Also, just like, as a disclaimer, I may have...gone a tiny bit overboard with some things here, and by that I mostly mean with the angst. Like, just a tad. You know?

They come as night falls, wielding axes and riding war horses.

The villagers, some even roused from their beds, run to save their lives, frightened and panicked. Gwen is among them, lost in the chaos, the screams, the cries and the sounds of the hooves upon the ground, still soft from the rains that always come a few days before Ostara.

She tries to flee but the men have circled the village, cut off every way in and out.

They bear no colors, no marks of any kingdom, and she cannot guess who they are or where they come from, but she sees them bind a young man and throw him over a horse while they cut down his father, and so she thinks they may be here to steal away men for an army.

They set fire to the houses and the smoke stings her eyes, fills her lungs. She runs still, coughing as she weaves her way through the people and the animals who do the same. She tries a different path, towards the woods on the west. Though fires burn bright and tall and the full moon is high in the sky, it is still too dark for her to spot the rock her foot catches on.

No one sees her fall.

Gwen scrambles to her knees, a hand going to her throat as she tries to breathe. The air is white from the smoke of the cottage that burns next to her, and through it, she sees the black outline of a man coming at her with his sword held high.

Her heart beats like it will jump out of her chest as she frantically tries to find her footing, even as her twisted ankle sends searing pain through her leg. The man nears, closer and closer. He wears a black cloth over his mouth to shield him from the smoke that fills Gwen’s eyes and throat, and the light of the fire casts a shine on his dark skin and bald head.

Gwen only manages to stand when he is already upon her. Not a moment later, his blade strikes forward. She feels the force of it well before the pain.

There is no mercy, no remorse, in the man’s eyes as he draws the sword out and lets her crumble back to the ground, her knees sinking into the mud again. He leaves her where he has struck her down, clutching at her stomach.

For a moment, she feels nothing, only stares down at the blood pouring out of her, a red stain upon her red dress. When the pain truly comes, it burns like a fire throughout her body, forcing a gasp out of her. She does not have enough strength left to keep upright and falls back, staring up at the faint moonlight that peeks through the clouds overhead.

Gwen does not know how long she lies there, bleeding out, but it feels like such a long time – longer than any night she has spent in a cell waiting to die, longer than the nights she has spent awake and frightened in the woods, longer than all the weeks she has spent away from home combined.

She drifts in and out of consciousness, too weak to move, the sounds of the attack coming in and out in waves. Eventually, they die down altogether, and it is voices she hears, men speaking while they walk past her, as if she were not even there.

“How many do we have?” one asks.

“About ten,” another answers. “Perhaps fifteen.”

“And how many will actually be able to fight?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’d say about five.”

“That is not enough,” the first snarls.

“M’lord – ”

“The Lady Morgana expects an army. Do you suppose we’ll take Camelot with _five_ men?”

Gwen’s breath catches as their voices are slowly lost in the distance, her mind strangely muddled even as it races. _Camelot. Morgana. An army._ They’re in danger. She has to warn them.

But she cannot move – her sight is so blurred, she can barely even see. She tries, again and again, so hard, to get her limbs to work, but there is a rift between her mind and her body, and she only ever manages to sink herself further into the grime.

Voices come to her again, except now they are fraught with despair and panic, as the survivors call for their loved ones. Some pause at her side then move on, a few pass her entirely. None say her name.

For a moment, she dreams that she _can_ hear it, that her friends have found her – that the red spots that dance before her eyes are the cloaks of the knights of Camelot, breaking through the thick wisps of smoke. They’ve cut down the bandits and now they’re coming for her. They’re coming to take her home.

Frogs croak faintly in the distance as Leon yells for the blacksmith’s daughter. Gwaine asks for a princess and sinks his hands into the dirt to grab fistfuls of the white daisies he will put in her hair. Boulders roll and crash as Percival searches for the place where she has fallen. Her brother says he is sorry that he isn’t being much help.

The wind carries with it the smell of medicines and burning incense as Merlin screams to the rest that he cannot find her. And Arthur –

Arthur calls for her, and his voice carries over the screams and the fire as he runs to her.

She drags her shaking, bloodied hand to the band that hangs around her throat and sobs with the little air that is left in her lungs.

Arthur always comes for her. Arthur will find her.

She waits and waits, for the rising sun to cast a light on his golden hair, for his hands to pick her up from the shallow grave she’s sinking into. She’ll do anything. She will sell her soul for him to find and save her.

He never comes.

The sun rises, and tears spill from the corners of her eyes and seep into the ground along with her blood. She knows now that she is alone. She will die where she lies, unclaimed and unremarkable. She will never go home.

It is her father she hears now, beckoning her to him. It is Lancelot she sees, extending his hand to her.

In the end, she even hears her mother, long-lost, traipsing through, somehow, telling her to hold on just a while longer.

But Gwen closes her eyes, sheds her last tear, and lets the dawn have her.


	2. And Everyone

Three days before Ostara, Merlin dreams a dream.

In it, are three things. The lake of Avalon, a knight’s white horse with no rider, and a white fay with no voice and no face. Freya rises from the water, pale and glowing in the moonlight, and speaks three words. _She is gone._

The dream follows Merlin even as he wakes, staggering out of his room for breakfast.

It might be a dream like any other, but it feels more real than that. Somewhere between the images he conjures in his mind each time Kilgharrah tells him of a prophecy and seeing the true future in the crystal of Neahtid. He senses the unmistakable hand of magic in it.

It still preoccupies him as he eats, making him uneasy right down to this very bones, so much so that it takes Gaius calling his name three times before he looks up from his bowl.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” Gaius asks.

Merlin shrugs. “I just…had a strange dream.”

“What was it?”

“It was – ” Merlin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s probably nothing. Besides,” he adds wryly, “ _she’s_ coming here today.”

Gaius gives him a reproachful look. “Merlin.”

Merlin shrugs again, unapologetic.

Because that’s another thing – Arthur stood before the court some days ago, and announced that he was to marry a princess. For an alliance, of all things. Then, upon suggestion that he was still in love with another, said that she had made her choice, that she had to bear the consequences, then threatened Merlin with joining her in exile forever.

Uther must be throwing a party in his grave.

All in all, Merlin believes he is entirely justified in his foul mood.

A knock on the door keeps him from dwelling on it. After he is bid entrance, Leon comes in, looking about as troubled as Merlin feels.

“Gaius, Merlin,” he greets, stiffly.

Merlin frowns. “What is it?”

“You haven’t seen Elyan this morning by any chance, have you?” Leon asks. He receives a unanimous negative, and his shoulders slump. “Then it’s true.”

“What is?”

“He’s…left,” Leon says, and Merlin freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Gone at dawn. All of his belongings are missing. He’s only left his knight’s cloak behind.”

Well, how about that. Merlin remembers hearing this story before, except it was Elyan’s sister telling it. He’s left her once, then once again for Arthur, and now he’s left Arthur, too. Merlin thinks it’s kind of funny.

“I’ve been through most of the city,” Leon goes on. “No one’s seen him. He’s really gone.”

“Why would he leave?” Merlin asks.

An air of discomfort descends upon the room, as if the same explanation might come to all of them, but they just do not want to say it.

Yet even as he thinks it, Merlin dismisses it. Elyan made it clear where his allegiances lie.

The three spend long moments in silence before Gaius finally prompts, “Have you told the king yet?”

“No.” Leon sighs. “But now, I suppose I must.”

Merlin nods. “Best to get it over with, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The heavy wooden door of the Rising Sun creaks as it shuts behind Leon. He steps back into the winding, crowded street, expelling a deep sigh.

Even if the king has mostly kept his feelings to himself upon hearing the news, Leon cannot imagine that Elyan’s departure does not grieve him. Outwardly, however, all he has done is, very discreetly, task Leon with asking around further.

Three spots and five conversations later, and he is still no closer to having a clue as to why Elyan may have gone.

Even as he rationally chalks it up to some outside force or simply Elyan’s nature, some part of Leon continues to believe he knows the answer.

It is the same reason why Maera, the innkeeper’s wife, asks him what the princess is like, then sours when Leon says she is lovely. The reason why Merlin seems to be in a mood, and why the cook has burned the king’s food several days in a row.

Likely, it is also the reason why he spots three young knights – his old squire Sir John, still so freshly knighted, among them – lingering in the busy street, staring at the door of an empty house as if lost in their thoughts.

They leave before Leon reaches them. John is the last to go, as if with a heavy heart, until the ends of his red cloak disappear, blending in with the masses.

Now it is Leon who lingers in the boy’s spot, his eyes drawn to the same empty house then to the adjacent forge, staring at the door like it will open any moment. Memory takes him back, to years ago, when _he_ was still just a boy, much younger even than John or his friends.

His parents’ maid comes huffing through the household, near on the brink of tears, telling him her son has gotten into trouble again. The guards will take him to spend a night in the dungeons if no one comes to fetch him and beg forgiveness to the king for his transgression – something about the wrong place and the wrong time, and a group of boys putting a lizard down a knight’s trousers.

By the time Leon comes to said forge, to be greeted by a burly one-eyed apprentice named Theos, he has already forgotten what the girl’s name is.

So, scrambling, he does the only thing he can think of, and simply asks for the blacksmith’s daughter.

She comes out from around Theos, short and small, with little flowers sticking out of her dark hair and a couple of her front teeth missing. Leon thinks she’s kind of funny-looking.

When the blacksmith returns, he forges Leon his first sword as a way of thanks. His wife hides his mischiefs from his parents whenever he stirs them, and their children take him frogging with them on each full moon.

And now they are all gone.

Leon turns away with another heavy sigh, shaking his head free of memories, and carries on with his task.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two days before Ostara, Merlin dreams no dream.

But it is never far from his thoughts. When his mind wanders, the knight’s horse he saw becomes the one Lancelot used to favor, and the white fay in the lake makes him think of another old friend entirely. Avalon makes him think of the price of magic. 

And even if some small, dark part of his mind whispers to him that he should have guessed by now what it means, he tells himself that he still cannot explain it.

No more than he can he explain why the king so adamantly refuses to admit his true feelings, but that’s an altogether different matter.

Princess Mithian arrived the day before, in suitably grand fashion. Arthur’s jaw dropped at the sight of her and Merlin only barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He does not know how he survived the day.

Between Arthur appearing completely smitten and that picnic he forced Merlin to accompany them on – and there is apparently no amount of making the king burp like a pig that can put off _this_ princess. What sort of court do they hold in Nemeth, honestly? – it made for some trying hours.

He can’t imagine that today will be any easier.

In late morning and on his way to the king’s chambers, about to face his ordeal, Merlin spies Gwaine wandering about, as if oblivious to the world around him, clutching something in his hand and seemingly muttering to himself.

Two corners down, he comes across Percival, filling the hallways with the stench of his morning training. He is alone, which strikes Merlin as odd. Then he remembers why.

Not that Arthur has, as far as Merlin knows, acknowledged Elyan’s departure with anything more than a couple of words and a sad look.

Percival’s solemn expression betrays him, too. Though he has always been mostly just big and quiet, there is usually always something good-natured that comes off him. But not today.

He stops when he spots Merlin, shortly greeting him by his name.

“Sir Percival.” Merlin nods in return. He nearly lets him pass without further exchange, but he cannot help but feel a swell of sympathy. They are both missing a friend, after all. So, Merlin asks, “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s just that – I know how close you and Elyan were, that’s all.”

Though Percival’s expression does not change, his great, broad shoulders seem to slump a little. “It is what it is.”

“Nonetheless,” Merlin says, “I really am sorry.”

“Thanks,” Percival acknowledges quietly, then simply continues on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwaine walks the halls of the palace, returning from training. Not that it has gone particularly well.

His form was off, his strikes too imprecise and his footwork shoddy, at best. Gwaine shrugged and said something about long nights and taverns. Arthur was hard on him for it, saying that this was not the time for his knights to be sloppy, but to impress the princess with the great skill they were famed for.

And all Gwaine can think of since, is the last time he heard him say it – before an altogether different wedding, to an altogether different woman – when he came to the jousting grounds still staggering from all the drinks he’d knocked back in celebration.

A maid comes from the other hand of the hallway, a basket of flowers in her hands. Without even thinking, Gwaine reaches out and plucks a single, white daisy from the pile. He hardly pays any mind to the sour look the maid gives him as she passes.

He twirls the small flower between his thumb and forefinger as he strides forward, his mind years away. He swears he hears her voice exactly as it was then. ‘ _Unfortunately, I am not a princess.’_

“No,” he mutters. Some part of his mind still invariably supplies, _‘but certainly a queen of Camelot.’_

Expect that is not true anymore, either.

“What are you doing?” A man’s sharp reprimand draws him out of his thoughts and Gwaine pauses.

The door to of the guest quarters – the ones Princess Mithian currently uses, by the looks of it – stands ajar. Gwaine sticks his head through the crack, peeking at the two people inside. George, the serving boy, stands with his back to him, hands on his hips as he stares down a young maid.

She is so young, she’s practically still a child, and she seems to cower a little under George’s tone, her short fingers clutching at a vial she holds in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Putting belladonna in the future queen’s tonics so that she breaks out in boils is meaning no harm?” George demands.

Gwaine’s eyebrows shoot up. That is probably some manner of high treason. Still, the girl’s eyes well with tears and so, despite it all, he puts a hand on the door, ready to come in and tell George off. But then, she speaks again.

“Everyone says she’s very beautiful,” the girl’s voice is small. “So, I thought if – if she isn’t, then – then the king won’t like her anymore, and he’ll send her away. Then…then _she_ can come back.”

Gwaine freezes. The maid need not say her name for him to know of whom she speaks.

George must, too. For a long, unending moment, he is perfectly still. Then, his shoulders sag.

“Oh, Maud,” he sighs. “That won’t solve anything.”

The girl starts to cry and George, with the sort of gentleness Gwaine has only ever seen him show to chainmail, brass knobs and the king’s breakfast, steps forward and wraps her in a hug.

“I know you miss her,” he soothes. “But she can’t come back. She’s gone now. We all have to accept that.”

Gwaine lowers his hand as the girl continues to sob quietly on George’s shoulder, and looks down on the daisy he still holds.

He stares at it for a while longer, then crushes it in his fist and walks on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One day before Ostara, Percival sits with his brothers at one of the tables in the great hall. The evening has brought a feast in honor of Princess Mithian’s presence in Camelot.

It abounds with food and drink but it is all tasteless in his mouth. It is, perhaps, why he eats, why he drinks, all the more, as if the next cup is the one that will finally leave a taste – or better yet, wash away the uneasy feeling in the pit his stomach.

He is uncomfortable on his bench, awkward in his own skin, as if the world around him were just not quite right.

“They seem to be getting along well, don’t they?” Gwaine comments, nudging Leon.

Percival follows their line of sight, to where the king sits with Mithian at the head table. They exchange words and smiles with an ease that seems obvious even from afar. It is as if they fit together perfectly.

And Percival just knows exactly what’s not right.

He tips his cup back and says, “You’d never know another was ever even here.”

Gwaine and Leon grow very still, then slowly, turn their heads to him as one. In the end, Leon quietly pleads, “Percival.”

It is the drink, he admits that. But he looks at the king and sees a stranger next to him – he looks around and sees an empty spot on the bench next to himself. Yet no one would know it at standing on the training grounds in the morning, at looking at this room.

Arthur does as good a job pretending Elyan was never here as he does with _her._

And Lancelot.

Percival is a knight of Camelot. He loves the king. He will serve him until the day he dies. So, he never once speaks of the absence of those who have betrayed him. Yet he feels it right down to his bones.

On this one night, if not another, it spills out of him. “I met her the day I met the king,” he says. “I sat at the round table with her. From the moment I became a knight of Camelot, I believed that one day, she was the one who would be my queen.”

It had seemed so obvious.

Percival casts his eyes towards the head table once more, and sighs. “I have never known anything else.” 

The others grow quiet, somber, as if he has infected them with his mood.

Ever so softly, Gwaine asks, “Do you ever think about how she could be dead for all we know?”

Percival’s entire family is dead. The first friend he made after watching them die is, too – not once, but twice. His best friend in Camelot has just left without so much as a word.

He thinks about it all the time.

Leon says, “She made her choice. She betrayed the king. That is all.”

Again, it is the drink, but Percival’s voice sharpens, making his words sound like an accusation as he says, “Didn’t you grow up together?”

Leon looks stricken. He lowers his gaze to the ground and does not speak for the longest time. When he does, his voice is no longer hard. “She was my friend well before the king ever knew my name.” He nods. “As was Elyan.”

Slowly, he meets Percival’s eyes again. “But they are gone,” he says, “and I cannot change that.” 

It is, ultimately, the only truth that matters now. Percival may ponder, and reflect, and regret, and sink into the depths of his indignation all he likes, it changes nothing of the askew, unnatural world around him. It is what it is, after all.

So, Percival deflates, and simply picks up his wine again.

After a time, Gwaine, silent in this exchange thus far, suddenly chuckles. “She used to sharpen our swords better than any of the squires, did you ever notice that?”

The hint of a smile appears beneath Leon’s beard. “When John first became my squire, he was so bad at it that she would go into the armory and finish the job herself so I wouldn’t be hard on him. She didn’t think I knew.”

Percival says, “When I liked Elaine, she taught her everything about weaponry so we would have something to talk about. She didn’t think I knew either.”

No more than she had probably thought they would have so many stories about her.

“We used to catch frogs when we were children,” Leon tells them, much in the same breath where he tells the story of how she had smuggled him out of Camelot by putting him in a dress.

Gwaine laughs and says that she was always clever. Did they ever hear, he asks, of the time when the Dorocha came and she kept Lord Agravaine from sealing the gates by baldly implying, before the whole court, that do so would be to say that Arthur would fail? “George used to tell that story all the time.”

Speaking of George, Percival says, he once heard her laugh at one of his jokes about brass and gauntlets. “She might have been the one person in this kingdom who actually understood him,” he sighs. 

To the unobservant eye, it might even look like they share in the spirit of this feast – that they laugh out of joy, and hope, and love for the new queen, instead of remembrance for the one who was not.

It never occurs to Percival that others in the room might do the same.

That, three seats down, the reason Sir John gesticulates so wildly is because he is trying to convince Sirs Lucien and Bryan that, amongst the other young knights such as themselves, _he_ was her favorite.

That when, as the two sit together, Geoffrey of Monmouth puts a hand to his belly and chortles, it is because he is reminding Gaius of the same story George so loves.

That if one of the young maids, Maud, watches the princess from the shadows and giggles, does so because she thinks the once future queen was prettier.

Then Merlin drops a jug.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin pours for the king and scowls as he does.

He has tried. To make Arthur look like a clumsy, disgusting oaf and yet Mithian  only seems charmed every time. When he makes Arthur spill food in his lap, she picks up a napkin to wipe it off. Then – and Merlin nearly retches – they share looks and smile at each other.

As Arthur tells a bad joke and Mithian chuckles like it is just so funny, which it isn’t, Merlin seriously considers tipping this jug of wine over their heads. He could pass it off as an accident.

Instead, he continues to brood and simmer with an anger only he seems to feel. Because, and this is what makes it all the worse – everyone is just having so much _fun_.

They chat, they eat, they drink, they laugh, like they are simply so filled with happiness that it spills out of them. One would never know that none of this is right.

Merlin is so caught up in it - in his annoyance, his resentment, that he must watch Camelot’s future, Arthur’s future, become what it should not and wasn’t supposed to be - that it takes him a moment to realize that there is something else that isn’t right.

A chill sweeps the room and it grows cold, colder than any winter could be. It is a cold that comes from inside his own heart, that seeps into his flesh and raises the hair at the back of his neck. Voices fade to garbled whispers in his ears and time slows, slows to near a crawl – and that awful, uneasy feeling, that he has carried around  since his dream, returns like shards of cut glass at the pit of his stomach.

The little voice at the back of his mind tells him that he knows, now, what it means.

As well as he knows, without even looking, what he will see, too. His eyes already sting with tears when he turns them forward.

She stands exactly where his gaze falls.

In the middle of the hall, right at the center of the space left between the long tables that line the walls. Goddess, he remembers the dress she wears. Red and ever so simple, rough to the touch and only becoming of a servant. Except now, it is covered in blood. Every part of her is covered in blood.

_Gwen_ , he tries to say.

But his throat constricts, and he cannot speak, cannot think, cannot even blink his eyes.

Her dress is cut over her belly, like from the strike of a sword, and blood has poured from it all down her skirts, even over her chest, and stained the sleeves of the white underdress she has underneath. Her hands are streaked with red and there are the faint marks of bloodied fingerprints even at the base of her throat. The ends of her long hair are caked with it.

Time stands still around her. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound - except her, unreal and yet, to Merlin’s eye, as solid as any living thing. She takes one step, then a second, further into the room, and the sound of them is so soft, so quiet, like a fay’s lite feet walking on clouds. Her eyes sweep the place, from one side to the other, going over the knights and courtiers frozen in their merriment, the overflowing cups they have clinked together, and the droplets of their wine suspended in the air.

Lastly, her eyes turn straight ahead, falling to the head table. She looks so sad.

In the end, she finds him watching, and there is something like a flicker of surprise, of wonder, in her expression before it softens.

Merlin still has no voice. He can only stare, shaking, as the tears finally spill from his eyes, running down his cheeks.

Gwen’s eyes grow wet, too, but she does not cry. Instead, her mouth lifts into a smile as she opens it to speak. Even when all the air around her is cold, and dead, her voice is still the sweet, warm one he remembers. Even when it is thick with tears.

“Goodbye, Merlin.” 

For the briefest of moments, just one, he sees her walking through the crowded street towards him - free of blood, and sadness, and death -, in that dress and her red cloak, smiling and shaking his hand as she tells him her name.

Then she is gone.

The jug slips from Merlin’s limp fingers and crashes to the floor.

 


	3. Ostara

The jug falls to the ground with a resounding clang, spilling red wine over the floor and soaking Merlin’s shoes. He doesn’t notice.

A hush falls over the room. All eyes turn to Merlin, at the center of the disruption, still mutely staring at the same spot. Arthur whirls around, too, frowning as he takes him in. He asks something, something like, “what’s wrong with you?” probably, but Merlin never even hears it.

The next thing Merlin does remember is Gwaine, leading him away by the arm, then passing him off to Gaius, who takes him back to his quarters. He asks what it is he saw and when Merlin doesn’t answer, stays silent until they are behind closed doors. Merlin sinks onto one of the benches now, drawing wet, unsteady breaths. Gaius wraps a blanket around his shoulders then settles down next to him.

“What happened?” he asks again.

He probably thinks he saw the Cailleach again, or that Morgana has usurped the dead yet another time, or something such. In a way, it is so much worse than that. Because, though he never wanted to believe it, Merlin has known it since the night Freya came to him.

“She is gone, Gaius,” he says.

“Who is?”

Merlin lifts his head with great effort, and only barely finds the strength to say, “Gwen.”

Gaius’s features go slack. “How do you know?”

“I saw her,” Merlin’s voice breaks. “In the – in the hall, I saw her, Gaius, she was – she was covered in blood, she – ” He sniffles. “She said goodbye to me.”

Gaius, for his part, says nothing at all, only shuts his eyes and slowly hangs his head. Heavy silence descends, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Merlin buries his face in his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until red spots dance behind them. All he sees instead is the red of Gwen’s blood.

He was so worried – always so worried, about Arthur, about what Arthur does and what threatens him, that he forgot to worry about Gwen. And now it’s over.

“She – she was my friend, Gaius,” he sobs. “I loved her. I knew her before I ever believed in Arthur.”

Finally, Gaius lifts his head again.

“I knew her from the moment she was born,” he says, in a voice Merlin has scarcely heard him use before, rough and quiet. “I was the first to put her in her mother’s arms. I really – ” He swallows, slowly shaking his head. “I really thought she would find her.”

Merlin frowns. “Who?”

Gaius simply repeats, “Her mother.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Her name,” Gaius tells him, “is Sira. She still lives.”

Merlin has never heard Gwen talk much about her mother. He knows exactly one thing about the woman, and it is that she was once a maid in Sir Leon’s household.

It must show on his face that he is clueless, because Gaius continues with, “It’s been…about ten years now, since she left Camelot.”

“Left?”

“She took off one night, without warning, and without word to her family.”

“Like mother, like son,” Merlin deadpans.

He expects to be reprimanded for the jab, but Gaius appears to ignore it. Instead, he is looking straight ahead, into the glowing brasiers of the hearth, a flash of guilt crossing his features.

It takes Merlin no more than a moment to put it together. “She did tell _you_ she was leaving, didn’t she?”

Gaius nods.

“You never said anything to Gwen.”

“No,” he admits. “Nor to anyone else. Sira wanted it that way. But…she did leave me with a way to send word to her. In case anything ever happened.”

“You told her Gwen was banished,” Merlin realizes.

“Yes. And I - ” Gaius shakes his head desolately - “I really did think she would find her.”

“Why would she be able to find her better than anyone else?”

At length, Gaius says, “Sira…consorted with sorcerers.”

Merlin freezes. “Gwen’s mother,” he reiterates slowly, just to make sure he’s got this right, “consorted with sorcerers?”

“Druids, mostly. Sira – ” Gaius sighs softly – “was always a free spirit. No one place could keep her interest for long. Certainly not Camelot. She would come and go, I suppose she preferred to…wander. In that way, she and the Druids were of a kind. But then – “ his sigh is heavier now –  “Uther declared war on sorcery, and she had to leave them. Settle down, here, to save herself.” He shrugs. “I suppose, after a while, it became too much for her to live being tied down, so she…left.”

“That is no excuse to abandon her daughter,” Merlin scoffs. “You know, she probably didn’t even look for her. It doesn’t seem like she cared enough.”

“Whatever her faults,” Gaius says, “Sira did always love Gwen.”

“Yeah, well,” Merlin snaps, “Arthur loved her, too, and – ”

He breaks off, just short of saying something he’ll regret, averting his gaze. But speaking Arthur’s name does make it all come down on him again. What he knows and what he must do.

His eyes fill with tears once more, making him choke on his words as he asks, “How am I going to tell him, Gaius?”

Gaius is silent for a long, long time. Then, he says, “Perhaps, it is best he never finds out.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No – ”

“He has moved on, Merlin,” Gaius tells him. “He is happy. What good would it do to break his heart with this now? It won’t change anything.”

“But – ”

“No one else knows. Is it not better,” Gaius asks, with an infuriating sort of rationality, “to let Arthur, and everyone else in Camelot, continue to believe that Gwen is still merely in exile? After all…she is gone either way.”

 _Because he made her leave,_ Merlin wants to say, then forcibly pushes the thought away. He knows this isn’t what Arthur wanted. As well as he knows that what Gaius is suggesting makes sense.

So, Merlin only nods his head, saying nothing.

“Besides,” Gaius adds gravely, “there are still those in Camelot who care about her. Whatever the circumstances, Arthur is the one who sent her away. If they learn of this,” he cautions, “they might blame _him_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Maera wipes her hands on her apron, and wishes for the sun to finally come up in the sky.

She wishes she weren’t an innkeeper’s wife, too. Mostly, she wishes her Jeffry would just come back from Mercia already so she could leave him to put up with their patrons.

She likes them all well enough outside of the tavern. But her feelings start to turn, and quickly, the moment she begins putting tankards on their tables.

She dislikes them when they gamble as the sun sets. She dislikes them when they are drunk and rowdy as the moon rises. She dislikes them most as dawn nears, when their tongues are loose and they speak too boldly, gossiping about things that would earn them all nooses around their necks.

This dawn, as the sun breaks on Ostara, is one of the worst she’s had in years.

“Well, his broken heart mended quickly,” Alwyn, one of the butchers, slurs, ale dripping into his beard. Maera sighs.

“Aye,” Taye, Alwyn’s daughter’s betrothed, agrees. “What’s it been, a fortnight since Gwen’s been gone?”

 _It’s been months,_ Maera thinks.

“You can’t blame a man for moving on,” Kai, the cook’s son, says. “She betrayed him.”

Murmurs go around the table they all sit at, and Maera has seen this enough times to know it foretells a storm.

Theos, from his lone corner, snorts loudly, and drops his tankard on the table with a thud. “Do you really still believe that?”

And there it is.

“What do you mean?” Taye asks, curiosity dripping from his every word.

Theos leans forward, elbows on the table. “Think about it,” he says. “No one really knows what happened that night. All we have is the king’s word that Gwen did what she did. That boy, Merlin, won’t speak of it. All we do _know_ is that she was distraught, and crying. All the guards say it.”

Kai shrugs. “Well, obviously, she’d have regretted her actions. However much she cared for Lancelot.”

“I knew Gwen,” Theos says with force. “She loved the king.”

“So what are _you_ saying?” Ella, one of the palace maids, asks, shifting on her husband’s lap to better reach for the tankard they share.

Theos shrugs. “He’s done this before, hasn’t he? He makes a choice, then changes his mind. First it was a lady, then a princess. And then it was Gwen.”

His one good eye sweeps over the rest of them now, like he is about to enlighten them with some grand truth – except he is not one for reason, but for drink, gossip and conspiracy.

“It’s just convenient, isn’t it?” he says. “Just when he is finally to be married, his betrothed betrays him with a man who’s supposed be dead.”

“You’re not suggesting – !” Kai protests.

Theos shrugs again. “Found himself a new wife awfully fast though, didn’t he?”

Maera is too shocked by what he’s implying to react for a moment, but he has the others on his hook, he’s riled them up, and she can see it in their eyes, can hear it in their murmurs of agreement.

_Could it be?_

_Surely not._

_But he is right about the king._

_He is right about Gwen._

_The king did this._

“Enough!” Maera puts an end to it. “Listen to yourselves!” she chides. “You accuse the king of deceiving us! You speak treason! Gwen – ”

For all the wind she has in her sails, her voice breaks on the name and she falters, her breath catching. The others are quiet now.

Maera swallows. “Gwen would be the first to condemn you for this,” she finally says.

She hates to think of what Gwen would say. She hates to think of where she might be now, if she is alone. She hates to remember watching her drag a cart three times her size down an empty street through a crack in her shutters. She hates to remember her father, dotting on her from the day she was born until the day he died.

She even hates to think of Sira, of what she would say.

Most of all, she hates that part of her which hopes that Theos is right, that the king is fickle and that this princess won’t last either. At least then, it would mean it isn’t over.

 _She’ll come back,_ Maera thinks desperately, at the crack of this terrible dawn, as she has thought it every day since she’s been gone, when she is too tired to remember the truth and her hopes get away from her. _Guinevere will come back._

No one speaks. It is her Jeffry who ends the silence, standing at the threshold as the tavern door creaks open under his hands, the heavy cart stacked with the wares he went to Mercia for behind him.

Maera practically leaps into his arms. He holds her tightly but she notices a tremor in his fingers, a slump in his usually strong shoulders. When she pulls back, his face, normally a healthy shade of pink, is ashen, and his bright eyes are dull.

“What is it, Jeffry?” she asks, taking his cloak and settling him in his chair. The others gather round, glossy eyes full of worry.

Jeffry sits heavily. “I have heard the most terrible news.”

Maera brings him a cup of mulled wine and kisses his forehead. She’s not seen him this upset since the day Tom was executed.

Jeffry drinks but his voice is still unsteady as he speaks. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he says, “but they all said the same thing. Every tavern, every merchant, every smuggler, from here to Mercia, they all say the same…” He covers his face with his hands.

Maera is alarmed now, rubbing his back. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it, I’ve never seen news spread so wide and so fast, but they’re all saying the same thing, I heard it everywhere I went – ”

“What, my darling,” Maera urges, “what are they saying?”

Jeffry drops his hands. When he lifts his head, his eyes shine with tears.

“Guinevere of Camelot is dead.”

 

 

* * *

****

 

On Ostara, Merlin greets the morning much like he had the night, awake and staring at the ceiling of his room.

Gaius comes to say that the king needs him to come along for his traditional hunt. Merlin has some choice words in reply, which he imagines will translate into Gaius telling Arthur that he is either on the brink of death or in the tavern.

He climbs out of bed around midday, and when he steps out the door, there is a dead man laid out on the table.

Merlin comes in for a closer look, then does a double take. “That’s Sir John.”

“He was found dead in his bed this morning,” Gaius explains. After a moment, he adds, “Tell me what you see.”

Merlin steps forward and leans in, inspecting the boy. While he admits his heart is not fully in this, there is still only one thing he can say.

“Nothing.”

“Exactly,” Gaius agrees. “There is no apparent reason for his death.”

Merlin straightens. “So, you suspect sorcery?”

“Perhaps,” Gaius allows. “But even that, I’m afraid, would leave some kind of mark. John is in perfect health, perfectly fit. He’s just…”

“Dead?”

“Well, yes.”

Merlin nods. “Great.”

Gaius is quiet for a moment, before he prompts, “So what would you suggest as the cause?”

“I don’t know, Gaius,” Merlin says glibly, “maybe he prayed to the Goddess to put him out of his misery and she finally granted his wish.”

Gaius frowns in disapproval. “Merlin.”

He’s right, that’s not fair. John was a good knight. He had a good heart. If anything, Merlin will remember him fondly.

He looks down at John’s body. The boy seems very peaceful, laid out like this. His young, tan face is yet only lightly touched by the sickly pallor of death, so that it may almost seem like John is merely slumbering, sleeping off some illness that’s simply drained him a bit of his usual color and spryness. His dark, elbow-length hair is still tied in the braid he went to sleep with, set neatly over his shoulder. His plain but silk nightclothes have nary a wrinkle on them.

One could never guess, looking at him like this, that he once came to Camelot as nothing more than a poor butcher’s son, orphaned and homeless after Cendred’s immortal army had swept through his village.

With a rueful smile, Merlin comments, “He loved Gwen.”

Merlin remembers, in great detail, hearing him beg Leon to beg the king to knight him just in time to take part in the tournament in honor of the royal engagement. He was so happy when Gwen looked pleased that he had won his first joust.

Merlin remembers Gwen with John, too, how she helped him settle in. Merlin isn’t sure she ever realized that it had made John practically worship the ground she walked on. And more often than not, Merlin is convinced that John became a knight not because _he_ loved Arthur, but because Gwen did.

More often than not, he is convinced that John was not the only one.

“Has anyone told Arthur yet?” he asks.

“I don’t believe so. He’s already gone hunting with the princess,” Gaius says, going to fetch his scalpel and magnifying glass, as he readies to begin a more thorough examination.

Without a word, Merlin stands by to assist.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On the morning of Ostara, Arthur wakes from a fitful sleep. He will never admit that it is because he worried about Merlin.

He waits and waits for him, until he is _forced_ to get out of bed and dress himself. He stalks to the physician’s quarters, only to be greeted by Gaius, who tells him that Merlin is still not in any shape to resume his duties. Arthur understands this to mean that Merlin is either on the brink of death or in the tavern.

Tough Gaius reassures him that nothing is seriously wrong, there is an uncomfortable undercurrent to his words. Arthur can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

As Merlin is either dying or drinking, it is George who serves him this morning. He lays out his breakfast then helps him get into his armor for the hunt he has planned with Mithian, all in utter silence. It is unlike George, to not make even a single, dull joke about brass.

He works in silence, walks in silence, eyes downcast like that of a kicked dog. There comes a point where Arthur just cannot stand the _silence_ anymore.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he asks. Probably not the best conversation starter, but it should, Arthur thinks, do in such times of crises.

It does not.

All it really does is have George look up like he’s just mortally wounded him, then scurry away and out of sight – still, without one, single word. Arthur stares after him.

“What is wrong with everyone?” he mutters.

His empty chambers give him no answers.

It does get a bit better once he meets with Mithian – she, at least, _talks_ to him – but she does tell him that her maid, one of Camelot’s servants assigned to her service, was a sad, forlorn sight this morning.

She is not the only one.

A hunt usually lifts his knights’ spirits, whatever their woes, but today, they are as quiet and sullen as George. One would think Arthur was marching them to their deaths, by the looks on their faces. They keep stealing glances at him, too, like they are looking for something, expecting to see something, in his expression.

Arthur has no earthly clue what that is.

The whole castle is in a mood, evidently, and for the life of him, Arthur cannot guess why.

It grates on him, even as it raises concern, because this is not the sort of impression they should be leaving the princess with. He can see it in her eyes, that she wonders if it somehow has to do with her.

Arthur compensates for this slight by letting her take down the biggest game of their expedition. She has impeccable aim.

As the knights are stringing the animal up to be taken back to Camelot, Arthur approaches Sir Gwaine  and, without preamble, asks, “Is something the matter?”

Gwaine looks up at him, eyes wide, much like the deer who had been caught in the line of Mithian’s crossbow. He does not immediately speak, studying Arthur, before his shoulders seem to slump.

“No, sire,” he says at length. “Nothing.”

There it is again, Arthur thinks, that _something_ in his voice, in his expression – like with Gaius, with George, with all of them – that sends discomfort down his spine. He just doesn’t know why.

Later in the day, as if to add to its hideousness, Leon comes to inform him that Sir John is dead.

“I was just told. He was found in his room this morning,” Leon says. “Dead at dawn.”

Arthur takes the news with a heavy heart. He liked John. He was so young. He’d knighted him just in time to –

“What happened?”

“Gaius can’t say.” Leon shakes his head regretfully. “John bears no wounds, no trace of poisons, nothing. He is in perfect health. He’s just…dead.”

Arthur nods. He will speak with Gaius later, to see if something further can be uncovered. “I’m sorry,” he tells Leon. “I know you were fond of him.”

“I am sorry, too,” Leon says.

He departs, and Arthur is left in silence once more. He drags himself over to the windows of his chambers, looking out onto the city.

This is the second knight he’s lost the last few days. And, like with Elyan, thinking of John inevitably makes him think of –

Arthur forcibly puts an end to it.

It hurts too much, to think about her. So, he doesn’t think about her at all.

But she creeps on his mind now, like a memory that will just not leave him be, and, if only for a moment, Arthur misses her as fiercely as he did the day she was gone.

In return, he stalks out of his chambers, gathers his lords, and announces that he will be married in a fortnight.

Word spreads fast, as it does in Camelot.

He receives many congratulations, as he expects. However, he is also met by one knight after the other, all with variations of the same words on their lips. It starts with the young ones, John’s friends, but as the day drags on into the night, they are not the only ones. Come nightfall, it is Percival who comes to his chambers to tell him much the same, and Arthur decides he’s had quite enough of all of this.

He asks him the same question as he did Gwaine. “Is something the matter?”

Percival shrugs. “No, my lord.”

Why they have all suddenly taken to lying to him, Arthur cannot guess. “Really?” he demands, taking a step closer to properly face his knight. “Because since I’ve announced the date for my wedding, all I keep hearing from you lot is that you will be otherwise occupied that day.”

“Uh,” Percival fumbles, “right, yes, well…it’s unfortunate, but it’s…a busy day…for many.”

“You’ve just told me you can’t be there because you’re going with Gwaine to see his sister,” Arthur deadpans.

“Yes.”

“Gwaine hates his sister.”

“Which…is why he needs the company, sire.”

Arthur closes his eyes and prays to God for patience. At least it’s not the most ridiculous excuse he has heard today, he will grant Percival that. But he still does not believe a word of it.

“I am getting married,” he reiterates, enunciating each word carefully, “and suddenly, half my knights have somewhere else to be. So, I am going to ask you again, and I’d like you to answer me honestly.” He levels Percival with a steady, penetrating look. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

Percival stands unmoving and speechless for a time, then deflates, like a great oak tree slumping in the winter.

Arthur presses his lips together. “Is this about Mithian?”

Percival hesitates, so Arthur adds, “You can speak freely.”

It takes a moment still, but eventually, Percival’s tongue loosens and he does speak, like surrendering a battle.

“I am sure that Mithian is lovely.” His voice is soft. “That she will be a great queen, and that we will love her. But, sire,” he says, quietly, almost pleadingly, “we loved Gwen, too.”

Her name is like a blow to Arthur’s gut.

“I know there is no point to it anymore, now that she is gone,” Percival goes on, looking at Arthur with mournful eyes, “but we did. We do. The truth is – ” his voice catches – “I think – I think, maybe, we hoped that might come back one day, somehow.” He swallows. “It’s just…hard, for some of us, to stand by and watch another take her place.”

At length, Arthur only says, “I see.”

There is an ever-growing pressure in his chest, like his heart will crack open, any moment now, and release everything he has tried so hard not to feel.

Arthur looks away, and finally voices a question he hasn’t thought to ask since the day she’s been gone. “What are the people saying?”

Percival gives a small, helpless shrug. “They miss her.”

They can’t possibly miss her the way he does, Arthur thinks. No one can.

Whatever Percival sees on his face, he must believe it’s disapproval, for he quickly adds, “I’m sure Mithian will win their hearts, too, over time. She really is lovely. But she’s just not…”

“Guinevere,” Arthur whispers.

Percival simply says, “Yes.”

Arthur nods, blowing out a quiet breath. “Thank you, Percival. I appreciate your honesty,” he says. “You may go.”

“Sire.” Percival bows his head and moves as if to leave, though he lingers in the spot a while longer, like there might be something else he expects to hear or see. When nothing comes, he does leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Arthur stands rooted in the spot a while longer, then slowly, because his limbs feel like they are weighed with stones, drags himself over to his desk and sinks into his chair.

When Guinevere betrayed him, his uncle told him what _they_ were saying. That in his father’s time, she would have been executed for her crime. But Arthur never thought to ask the knights. To ask the people.

They can’t believe that, can they, not when they still miss her like this. Not when their hearts are closed to another.

And after all these months, after all he has done to prove otherwise, Arthur may finally admit that so is his.

It all turns to dust, the elaborate illusion he’s created for himself – that he’s moved on, that he can marry another, that will give Camelot a new queen, one they will accept and love. All he’s done, evidently, is take away the one they already did love.

 _How could you let another take her place,_ a voice in his head accuses. It sounds remarkably like Merlin.

Arthur runs a hand over his face. Now what he is supposed to do?


	4. A Token of Good Fortune

Merlin does not come anywhere near the royal chambers until night falls, carrying the king’s dinner. He would have avoided that, too, if not for George unceremoniously thrusting the tray into his hands and telling him to stop shucking his duties.

So, Merlin does as he is told, passing Percival on his way. No words are exchanged, but Percival does look out of sorts. Merlin just does not have it in him to care this time. He knocks on Arthur’s door and enters without waiting for allowance, then sets the tray on the dining table without ceremony.

From across the room, Arthur looks up at him with a wry smile. “And where have you been all day?”

“In my room,” Merlin answers honestly. He doesn’t look at Arthur as he does. It’s easier that way. Bowing out of well-ingrained habit, he immediately makes for the door again.

Arthur stops him. “Are you feeling any better?”

Merlin slowly turns around, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes are firmly trained to his shoes. “Fine, my lord.”

“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me why you were so upset last night?”

“It was nothing.”

There is silence for a while. Then Arthur says, “Is it about Guinevere?”

Merlin’s head snaps up. The king’s eyes rest on him with unwavering focus, freezing him in the spot. He tries to say something, but nothing comes out.

Arthur nods, like it is exactly what he expected. “I wondered why everyone seems to be in a mood today,” he says. “Now I know.”

From one moment to the next, he suddenly looks troubled, and Merlin’s stomach sinks. He doesn’t dare move so much as a finger as he waits, his heart starting to pound.

Arthur casts his eyes down. “You were right,” he mutters. “I still think about her.”

Merlin’s breath catches.

“How can I love someone who’s betrayed me?” Arthur goes on, as if speaking to himself. “It makes no sense.”

Tears stinging his eyes, Merlin mumbles, “I – I’m not sure that I – ”

“I don’t know what to do.” Arthur slowly raises his head. “I have…no idea, what to do.”

Merlin has none either. All he wants to do is to flee, to run out and lock himself in his room again. There, at least, he won’t have to face Arthur, who is looking at him like he is lost, like it somehow falls to Merlin to work it out, to tell him what is right.

Which is the one thing that Merlin, who has sworn to give his life in service of making Arthur the greatest king Albion has ever seen, cannot do now.

And in his mind’s eye, he sees Gwen again, young, and scared, with shackles on her wrists and tears streaking her cheeks, saying, ‘ _Remember me._ ’

“I think – ” Merlin takes a deep breath. “I think you should do it. I think you should marry the princess.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Merlin lies. “She is a good person. She will…be a good queen. And you…have found Camelot the alliance it deserves.”

It is everything tradition calls for, everything the old king wanted – everything Merlin did not. He believed in such a different future for Camelot, had a such a different idea of who Arthur would become. But some things, it seems, are not meant to be.

While his heart twists and breaks inside his chest, Merlin forces a smile onto his lips, and says, “Uther would be proud of you.”

In the end, Arthur only nods his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Southrons dwell the way they live.

Like barbarians, crawling in caves as do all creatures too ugly to face the light of the sun. But they are a good means to an end, Morgana will grant them that. And they are efficient, even when they do not know it.

Her army amasses, growing stronger with each new village that falls. After the last one, she will even forgive the time it is taking.

She’s heard the whispers. They are everywhere. Even in the shadows where she must stay, wherever she goes, passed on from one mouth to the other like Albion’s worst-kept secret. She heard them. Then, she even saw the proof.

It is why she is here. Why she pours Helios a cup of fine wine and toasts in his honor.

“What’s this for?” he asks.

“Only a token of my appreciation,” Morgana says. “Even if it was not your intention, you have done me a great service, Helios. Thanks to you – ” she raises her cup in his name – “Guinevere of Camelot is dead.”

Helios raises his own cup, pleased as he takes a drink. It is only after he’s drained it of its contents, that he gives her a blank stare and asks, “Who the hell is Guinevere of Camelot?”

Morgana looks down to the depths of her wine, glinting with a faint red tint under the light of the torches, then slowly shakes her head. “No one.”

 

 

* * *

****

 

“Who is it that trumps a princess?”

The courtyard feels like the throne room on judgement day, except the king is the one on trial, having to answer for his actions. And faced with Mithian, Arthur falters, if only for a moment.

“No one,” he says quickly. Except that’s not right. So, he adds, “And everyone.”

“What great family is she from?”

“None,” Arthur says. “She is the daughter of a blacksmith.”

“And for her, you would risk your kingship?” Mithian sounds utterly lost. “Your kingdom?”

He invites war, he knows that. He’s turned it over in his mind a hundred times in the night, and a hundred more in the morning before he informed the princess that his promise no longer stood.

But the answer is always the same. “Without her, they’re worth nothing to me.”

He will admit that, if not the part where half that kingdom of his may well share the sentiment. If he did, he is certain Mithian’s farewell would not be so subdued.

“Farwell, Arthur,” she says.

“Farewell, Princess.”

Under the eyes of the court, as her escort of knights and guards of Nemeth follows behind, Arthur watches her leave the same way she came.

His lords appear perplexed, his uncle appears perplexed _and_ disapproving, and his knights avoid his eye. When he finds Merlin in his chambers, the latter looks at him much like Arthur would expect a frightened rabbit to.

At length, Merlin says, “I don’t understand.”

Arthur sighs, carefully setting his crown down onto the table before he faces him. “I know what you told me, Merlin,” he acknowledges with a measured nod. “And you were right. My father would have wanted me to marry her.”

He would have been proud. Yet, Arthur knows what that means, coming out of Merlin’s mouth.

“But the truth is,” Arthur goes on, “the kind of king my father wanted me to be is not the kind _I_ want to be. You told me once, that I had a choice. Last night, what you said reminded me of that – even if, for some reason, your advice was the exact opposite of what it used to be.”

Merlin’s smile looks pained. “Glad I could help.”

As he’s been driven to many times these last couple of days, Arthur frowns. “Honestly, I thought you of all people would be pleased.”

“I am. So…pleased.”

“Yes, you do look it,” Arthur deadpans.

Merlin affects some kind of face, which Arthur imagines is supposed to convey happiness, before it is replaced by a troubled expression.

“Did you really mean it?” he asks, quietly. “What you said about Gwen?”

Arthur looks away. His gaze falls to the courtyard, its moving shapes somewhat distorted by the stained glass windows – and part of him still expects to see a splash of purple or blue, to see her familiar form walk by.

“I think you know the answer to that, Merlin.”

When he turns his eyes forward once more, Merlin has his back to him, busying himself with something in one of the cupboards. Under his breath, he mutters, “Yeah, I do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Can you believe it?” Ella slams her tankard of mead onto the table. It echoes through the tavern.

“Just like his father.” Alwyn, who has been around long enough to see the time of Queen Ygraine come and go, shakes his head with distaste. “Talking about love as he brings war over our heads.”

“When _he_ is the reason why Gwen is gone,” Maera practically spits, wiping down a spill with far more force than it warrants.

“You were right.” Kai turns to Theos. “He probably conspired to be rid of her in the first place.”

“And now he uses her memory to be rid of the new one,” Ella says with contempt.

Taye snorts. “Would anyone care to place a wager on who the next one shall be?” he asks, loudly, of the other patrons.

Five hands rise in the air.

“Pendragons,” Theos finally speaks, to tell them the same thing he always does. “They are all the same.”

For once, no one leaps to disagree.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Under the cover of darkness, Agravaine rides to inform Morgana of what has happened.

He recounts every part of Mithian’s departure. It is only when he mentions what Arthur said that she seems to take an interest.

Agravaine does not understand it. How someone could love a serving girl in the first place, how they could be so weak, so foolish, as to threaten their own rule in her name.

What truly bewilders, however, is that the girl is dead. Arthur must know it. _Everyone_ knows. So, what could possibly be the point of calling on his love for her now?

“It surprises me,” he tells Morgana, who watches him curiously over her shoulder, “that he bears it so well. One would think he would be inconsolable, if he still loves her as much.”

“Indeed,” Morgana says, as if deep in thought.

Agravaine gives it some more consideration, then decides, “It must be because he believes she betrayed him. She had what she deserved, perhaps that is a comfort.”

The moment she hears it, it is as if a fire is lit behind Morgana’s eyes. She finally turns to him fully, a smirk touching her lips.

“Imagine what would happen,” she says, “if he learned the truth.”

Agravaine has been in her service long enough to sense where this may be going. “Morgana – ”

“If Arthur knew – ” she comes closer, shadows dancing on her face – “that his beloved Guinevere is dead because _he_ was deceived, he could never forgive himself.”

Agravaine does not doubt it. Even as a part of him takes pleasure in the idea, he wonders if it is, ultimately, needed.

“We went through great lengths to hide the truth from him, my lady,” he says. “It will not be easy to uncover it again. So, is it really necessary? After all, we are only weeks away from marching on Camelot. He will die soon anyway.”

“Yes.” Morgana stands right before him now. “But that is not enough. First, I want him to suffer.”

That, Agravaine cannot argue with. “As you wish.”

Morgana smiles once more, baring her teeth. “I thought that causing Uther’s death would break him. I was wrong,” she says. “But this will. This time, he will be truly broken.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It takes Agravaine a few days to find a way to carry out Morgana’s wish. In the end, the solution to uncovering the truth is the same as it was to hide it.

The bracelet he watched her enchant remains in Camelot.

After some asking around, Agravaine learns that it was discovered in the very cell he had Guinevere thrown in that night, to be discreetly taken by a guard who then gave it to his wife as an anniversary gift. The woman then reluctantly parted with it, to settle a debt with the butcher’s son, who then gave it to a girl he fancied as a token of his affections. The girl, in turn, promptly sold it to a stable hand’s mother for one silver coin.

Agravaine must hand out an astounding number of bribes before he finally has it in his possession.

He carries it to Gaius first. After all this work, he needs to be sure it will indeed serve its purpose. Magic leaves a trace, Agravaine knows that. But it will do him no good if no one can see it.

He asks Gaius for his opinion without many indications as to what it is he is examining. The old man is wary of him, as always, but he accepts, comparing the markings on the bracelet to a number of dusty books he owns.

Halfway through the last of them, he stops, and slowly raises his head.

“This bears the marks of an enchantment performed by the high priestesses, in the days of the Old Religion,” he says. “It serves to reawaken old feelings.”

Agravaine can practically see the cogs turning in his head, putting it all together.

“Thank you, Gaius. You’ve been most helpful.” He picks the token up again, turning to leave.

Gaius rises from his chair, taking a step after him. “Whose is it?”

Agravaine reins in on a smirk before he looks back over his shoulder, and simply says, “Lancelot gave it to Guinevere.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur pokes the chicken on his plate with a knife, wrinkling his nose at it. His lunch is burnt again. It seems to be getting worse. Perhaps the cook is losing her sight.

Throwing down the cutlery with a soft sigh, Arthur stands and moves to his desk. There has yet been no word from Nemeth on whether Rodor will declare war. Arthur suspects that is at least partly because they wish to keep him in suspense, make him suffer just a little while longer.

The waiting does make him question his actions. When he has nothing but time to think, he wonders if he’s been a fool. Likely destroyed a good alliance, gave grounds for war _and_ doomed himself to be a bachelor, all at once. Who does that?

And what is the point, really, in loving someone who cannot be found?

 _Perhaps that is only because you haven’t looked,_ a little voice in his head reminds him.

He has not, and he should not – and yet, the other day, he caught himself ruminating of every possible road she could have taken to leave Camelot, and where they might have taken her. He only realized what he was doing after he had already lined out the best path for a search party to take.

It used to be easier to put her from his mind.

The memory of her, with Lancelot, made the anger burn in him so hot that it drowned out everything else. But it’s been months, the anger has dulled, and the truth is, in moments such as these when he cannot deny it, it is worry that preoccupies him more than anything else.

What if she is in trouble, he wonders. What if she is alone?

That is how his uncle finds him, when he comes to his chambers. There is something in his hand, wrapped in a white cloth, but Agravaine does not immediately speak about it. Instead, he looks Arthur over and comments, “You look troubled, my lord.”

He is that obvious, then. “I was just – ” Arthur shakes his head dismissively – “thinking.”

Something he can’t quite recognize flickers across his uncle’s face, before he asks, “About Guinevere?”

Arthur starts.

“It is not a difficult guess,” Agravaine says.

Probably not, as Arthur imagines his actions have been the gossip of the entire city lately. Not that anyone is telling _him_ anything about it.

Chuckling under his breath, he leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “You’re right,” he says. “I…seem incapable of thinking about anything else.”

“I understand.”

“Do you really?”

“I may not have approved of her in the past,” Agravaine acknowledges – an understatement, “but I do care about you, Arthur. It pains me to see you with a broken heart, and that is why I had hoped you would forget her. But, if your actions have shown me anything, it is that your feelings for her have not changed. Which is why – ” he comes closer – “this is all the more difficult to do.”

Arthur frowns. “What is?”

Agravaine speaks no further, only presents that which he has brought in the palm of his hand, pulling back the cloth so that it is fully revealed.

At first, Arthur doesn’t recognize it. He stares at it, confused, until the memory comes – as vivid as that of Guinevere and Lancelot together.

She showed him this, when he asked what it was, and, with a smile on her face, told him that it was a token of good fortune; a gift from _him._

Arthur grits his teeth. “Why would you bring me this?”

“You know it, then?” Agravaine urges.

Fingers digging into his arms, Arthur warns, “Uncle…”

“It is not all that it seems,” Agravaine adds quickly. “I judged Gwen harshly, but you’ve always believed she was a good person, so, in light of your – feelings, I wondered myself if – ”

“Explain yourself,” Arthur interrupts. “ _Now._ ”

Agravaine waits a beat, and it must be a trick of Arthur’s mind, that there is a flicker of something so strangely like satisfaction in his uncle’s eyes, before he turns solemn.

“It’s enchanted.”

The whole world stops.

Just like it had that night. Arthur hears it, sees it, but it doesn’t make sense.

“Say that again,” he demands.

“It’s enchanted,” Agravaine repeats, as simply as that. “Gaius confirms it. I am sorry, Arthur.”

There is a strange noise in his ears. His whole body feels numb. “I – I don’t – understand.”

“It bears the mark of an enchantment that reawakens one’s old feelings,” Agravaine says. “Gaius believes the sorcery can only come from a high priestess. _I_ believe,” he adds, “that means this was entirely Morgana’s doing.”

 _‘I couldn’t stop myself.’_ Guinevere is in his head again – her face, streaked with tears, her voice shaking as she says, _‘I don’t know why.’_

Arthur can’t breathe.

“One can only assume she enchanted Lancelot the same way,” Agravaine is still talking, “I cannot say for certain. But the fact remains that we misjudged Guinevere’s actions. You were deceived, Arthur,” he finally says, “She was innocent.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time Leon sees the king, the news has already spread. Not to all, not yet, but widely enough that he and the knights have heard it. He sits with Gwaine and Percival in his quarters, none of them speaking. There are no words. Leon cannot imagine how Arthur feels.

Which is why it startles him when Arthur himself comes to find them, looking almost – _driven_.

His expression is grave and his shoulders stiff, but his voice neither shakes nor falters as he commands, “We convene in my chambers in an hour.”

Leon exchanges looks with the others. There are so many questions. In the end, faced with Arthur’s demand, the one that comes out is, “What for, my lord?”

“We are going to look for Guinevere.”

They all stare after him, even as he turns on his heel and leaves.

It is only when the door has long shut after Arthur that Gwaine slowly turns to the other two. “What’s that now?”

“But…” Percival frowns. “She’s dead.”

“Perhaps,” Leon grapples for an explanation, “he…wishes to find her grave?”

“I doubt they gave her one,” Percival mutters.

Then, Gwaine’s head snaps up. “You don’t think he…doesn’t _know_ , do you?”

The question hangs in the air.

“It is strange,” Percival hedges, “how he talks about her. How he’s been acting.”

“Like…she’s not really gone,” Gwaine says.

“No, he must know.” Leon shakes his head. “Everyone…knows.”

Even as he says it, he doubts it. The looks on his brothers’ faces make the doubt fester and grow, and, slowly, it all comes together, falling into place. Why Arthur has not seemed grieved at all, why he walked around as if he could not tell what was wrong, why he was so content with Mithian – why he sent her away.

Leon’s eyes widen in horror. “He doesn’t know.”

 

 

* * *

****

 

Merlin sags against the wall by the royal chambers.

Arthur summoned him an hour ago. Merlin has spent about half that time lingering outside the door, feeling too cowardly to come in.

Even as he closes his eyes, they still sting with tears.

He should have known. He should have seen it, Morgana’s hand in Gwen’s actions. He should have, and he didn’t, and now Arthur knows, and he wants to find her and Merlin – Merlin has no idea what to do.

“Does he not know?”

Merlin’s eyes fly open as the question tumbles from Gwaine’s lips. He approaches with quick strides, Leon and Percival in tow.

Merlin frowns. “Know what?”

“About Gwen.” Leon looks about as distraught as Merlin feels. “That she’s,” his voice lowers, eyes flickering towards the door, as if afraid that Arthur might hear, “that she’s _dead_.”

“How – ” Merlin stammers. “How do _you_ know?”

Gwaine looks at him like he is mad. “ _Everyone_ knows,” he says. “It’s the talk of the five kingdoms.”

Merlin wonders how he’s missed it. That they _all_ know. Then, he remembers that he’s spent the better part of the past two weeks locking himself up in his room and avoiding everyone, except for Gaius.

And it is Gaius he hears now, too, like the distant toll of a warning bell. _They might blame Arthur._

“Wait – ” Gwaine frowns – “how do _you_ know, then?”

“Um, yeah, I’d – I’d heard it, too.” Merlin thinks fast. “I just…didn’t realize how far it’s known, that’s all.”

Gwaine seems to accept this, though he does eye Merlin curiously for a moment longer.

Then Percival asks, ever so quietly, “But _he_ has no idea, does he?”

Merlin swallows, and shakes his head once.

Leon runs a hand over his face. Gwaine closes his eyes, hanging his head.

“We have to tell him,” Percival is the one to speak. The question he doesn’t answer is, ‘how?’

Nonetheless, the knights seem to steel themselves, as they would before a great battle, filled with grim resolve as they knock on the king’s door.

When they enter, Arthur has his hands braced against the long table of his chambers, poring over what must be every map of Albion he owns.

He looks up at them, brow furrowed in disapproval. “You’re late.”

Though his voice is steady, there is a faint redness around his eyes, and Merlin just knows that he will never be able to do this.

“Sorry, sire,” they all mutter as one.

Acknowledging the apology with a short nod, Arthur beckons them closer. They come, though Merlin drags his feet, falling back behind the others.

“I’m sure,” Arthur begins, eyes cast down to the maps in front of him, “that you’ve all heard by now. Thanks to my uncle’s diligence,” he says, and Merlin’s stomach turns, “I now know that what happened when…when Lancelot came back, was entirely Morgana’s doing. Guinevere – ”

It may be for only a moment, but he falters on her name, fists clenching like’s it all he can do to keep himself together, and Gwaine, like Merlin, silently falls back a step.

“Guinevere,” Arthur tries again, “was not guilty of anything. I was deceived, and she paid the price. Which is why _we_ are going to find her – ” he takes a deep breath – “and bring her back to Camelot.”

Percival is looking helplessly towards Leon, like he’ll know what to do. Leon, however, appears to be just as lost.

Oblivious to all this, Arthur says, “It will not be easy. It’s been months. But I know Guinevere.” He nods, dragging his finger along one of his maps. “She would have taken this road to leave Camelot. It’s the one she knows best.”

Merlin remembers watching her take it. He remembers being the only one to do so.

“Beyond that – ” Pieces of parchment rustle as Arthur turns them over, pointing here and there. “There are many possibilities. But she would have kept to the better travelled roads, perhaps trading routes. It’s safer, and there are more…inns and such, where she could rest. There are more people along the way, too, she would’ve wanted that.”

Quietly, he adds, “It frightens her to be alone out in the woods.”

Without a word, Percival, once the most determined among them, steps the furthest back, making himself nearly as one with the wall.

Leon is the only one left standing, and it is his eyes Arthur meets when he finally lifts his head again. “Is there something you’d like to add?”

There is a moment of utter silence. Then Leon slowly shakes his head. “No, sire.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They come out of the king’s chambers like weary soldiers after a war, leaning their backs against the walls for support.

“I can’t tell him.” Percival heaves a deep breath, then turns to Leon. “You do it.”

“What makes you think I can?” Leon asks weakly.

“No, but we must,” Gwaine says, nodding his head firmly, as if that will convince them. “Percival was right. He has to know. I mean…we’re not just going to let him ride out looking for her, are we?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They ride out at dawn.

The secret they keep weighs heavier on their shoulders with each new mile they cross, each step of Gwen’s path they retrace. They still don’t know how to tell Arthur.

Gwaine tries. He almost does it, too, but then their party passes by Gwen’s old home and Arthur’s eyes linger on it, and what comes out of Gwaine’s mouth instead is that the weather is very favorable for a quest.

Leon almost tries. He opens his mouth, once, twice, even a third time, and then never actually says anything.

Percival makes no attempts.

Merlin doesn’t want to do it at all. Some part of him knows they’re right. They can’t let Arthur do this, they can’t let him look for a woman who will never be found. But then, another part of him wants to agree with Gaius.

Better to just let him believe.

Reason tells Merlin that that would be pointless now. Everyone’s heard the truth. One day, sooner or later, someone is bound to let Arthur hear it, too.

With that in mind, Merlin, like the others, once more resolves to tell the king.

By midday, the most they’ve managed to do is to just convince him to take a respite to eat. For the first time since Merlin has known him, Arthur makes no comment on his cooking.  He only chooses a log, sits, and chews in silence.

Gwaine appears to gear up for another try at broaching the subject they all dread, this time with a gentler approach, as he comments, “You look like you have a lot on your mind, Arthur.”

Raising his head, Arthur simply replies, “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says quietly. “Yeah, I understand.”

Arthur sighs, turning his gaze elsewhere, over the surrounding trees and beaten-down roads that disappear into the distance - like if he just looks hard enough, he’ll find Guinevere somewhere in there, too.

“But, sire, perhaps,” Gwaine goes on, “perhaps we might consider the possibility that…Gwen cannot be found.”

Merlin can’t bear the look it brings to Arthur’s face.

“It may take some time,” Arthur acknowledges. “But she wouldn’t have gone far,” he adds, and Merlin honestly can’t tell if he’s talking to them or trying to convince himself. “She’s not the kind to… _wander_.”

“And if she has?” Leon asks. “Gone far?”

“We will follow,” Arthur says.

“And if it leads us nowhere?”

“Then we keep looking!” Arthur snaps.

The knights quiet down immediately, averting their eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur sighs. “I know you mean well. But I…I have to try. I owe her that.” He swallows, then, with determination, adds, “I cannot rest until I’ve found her.”

No one has anything to say after that.


	5. False Friends

Nightfall sees their search party at the first inn on the way out of Camelot that Arthur believes Gwen would favor. It’s sturdy, set along a well-travelled path and well-lit from within, and so Gwaine is inclined to agree.

He never mentions the part where there is no conceivable way that Gwen, whilst dragging all of her belongings with her on foot, would have ever made it this far in time to spend her first night in exile within four walls.

Arthur is troubled enough without hearing that. Gwaine is troubled enough by Arthur wanting to go inside and ask around without thinking about Gwen alone and frightened in the dark, too.

They shed their cloaks and rein in their horses before stepping inside. The inn is warm and smells of fresh food and mead. Patrons dine and drink around square wooden tables, cluttered together in a way that suggests that more are always being added without forethought or strategy. Off to one corner, a ratty staircase leads to the upper floor where the rooms must be.

Gwaine has little time to appreciate what a friendly place it is.

He tries to tell the king. It’s all he’s tried to do since they set on this pointless journey. He tried when they left Camelot, and he tried when they sat down to eat, and he tries now – before Arthur starts asking his questions, before he hears it from some stranger – he really does try.

He just can’t.

And as they march towards the innkeeper wiping down his goblets, Gwaine feels no different than he has in all the times that he’s marched towards his death instead.

A woman in a heavy blue cloak strides quickly past them, a tendril of long, dark and greying hair peeking out from beneath her low-hanging hood, and Leon startles.

“What is it?” Arthur asks.

Leon is still staring after the woman, long gone. “I – I thought I saw – ” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It must be my imagination.”

The distraction is only temporary.

Arthur reaches his goal in a matter of moments, and the innkeeper, spotting them, pauses in his task as they approach. None of them say who they really are, but Gwaine catches the man casting suspicious glances at their well-polished armor.

“I am looking for someone,” Arthur says. “A woman. Perhaps you have seen her.”

The innkeeper’s well-trained eye falls to the small purses that hang at each of the knights’ belts, then lights up with interest, and before Gwaine knows what he’s doing, he steps up, shoulder-to-shoulder with the king, and plasters on a charming smile.

“Right, so, she’s about yea big,” he says, and demonstrates by raising his hand at a height that would, admittedly, only be appropriate if Gwen were a dwarf.

Without a single word, Arthur merely puts his hand under Gwaine’s arm, then pushes it up to the right height.

Gwaine nods. “Yeah, that’s probably better. So, _this_ big, um, short hair – ”

“Long,” Arthur corrects.

“Erm, on the plump side – ”

“No.”

“Kind of – pale-looking – ”

“That is not even – ”

“Mostly just unremarkable, really – ”

Arthur’s head snaps in his direction. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” Gwaine mutters.

Ignoring him, Arthur turns back to the innkeeper, who, to his credit, seems only _mildly_ disturbed by this exchange.

“Dark skin, eyes and hair,” Arthur reiterates. “She’s from Camelot, she would’ve passed through here a few months ago. If you’ve seen her, you’ll remember her.” There is a slight shift in the innkeeper’s eyes, like this all sounds a little familiar to him, especially when Arthur adds, “There is no one else like her.”

No, Gwaine thinks. No, there wasn’t.

Finally, Arthur says, “Her name is Guinevere.”

Now, the innkeeper’s eyes light up with true recognition, eyebrows rising. Gwaine can practically see the words forming on his tongue. They’re the same everywhere.

Slowly, where Arthur cannot see, he shakes his head from side to side, and touches his fingers to the purse full of gold at his belt.

The innkeeper, accustomed as he must be to these things, only reacts to the movement with the merest twitch of his lips. He then shrugs and says, “I haven’t seen anyone like that. Sorry.”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. He still thanks the innkeeper and hands him a couple of coins for his trouble, then a couple more for five tankards of mead. Behind the king’s back, Gwaine puts his whole purse in the man’s hands.

As Arthur shuffles off to one of the tables, the others linger behind a moment, all levelling Gwaine with identical, unimpressed looks.

“What on Earth was that?” Percival deadpans.

Gwaine just sighs, and reaches for his drink.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gerrit has been an innkeeper’s son for as long as he has lived. Though his beard may not have yet grown, nor his voice deepened like a man’s, he has learned much about the way of things.

He knows to always bite into a coin to make sure it is really gold. He knows that there always comes a point in the night, where he can fill a tankard half with mead and half with water, and no one will still be sober enough to tell the difference. He knows how to tell ladies from commoners even when they try to hide their nature _– ‘They’re trying to get away from men, my son,’_ his mother says – and give them the best rooms in the inn.

Above all, he knows that, to his father, the truth is often not measured in facts, but by the weight of the purse in his hand.

As the group of armored men walks away, Gerrit steps up to his father, who covertly thrusts just such a purse into his hands for inspection.

Gerrit takes to the task with practiced fingers. “Were they asking about Guinevere of Camelot?”

“Aye,” his father says.

“Isn’t she – ”

“Yes.”

“But doesn’t the woman they described also sound a lot like – ”

“She does.”

“So, does that mean that she’s – ”

“Probably.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

It earns Gerrit a look, one that says this is something he ought to have learned better by now. In retrospect, he should have.

“None of my business, boy,” his father says simply. “None of my business.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Leon can’t sleep.

He shares a room with Percival, whose light snoring does nothing but worsen Leon’s troubles. Then, there is the rhythmic, methodic sound of steel running against steel coming through the wall, from the room next to theirs, as if someone’s decided to sharpen a blade in the middle of the night.

It makes Leon think of blood and battle. Of young squires handling knights’ blades in stifling tournament tents on hot summer days; of the warmth of the blacksmith’s forge on crisp winter mornings. It makes him think of Gwen.

Climbing out of bed with a sigh, Leon sneaks out, careful not to make the floorboards creak. He briefly considers disturbing Gwaine and Merlin, who share their own room, then decides that what he needs, is to be alone.

As he passes the door of the room where Arthur, who also preferred to be alone, sleeps, Leon wonders if this might be his chance to tell the truth. The king has to know. Maybe, if Leon can speak to him privately, under the cover of the night, then he might actually have the courage to do it.

His hand hovers over the doorknob for a moment, then falls away.

Even as he berates himself for his cowardice, Leon comes down the unsteady staircase and crosses the inn, into the welcoming, peaceful woods that surround it. Once there, he stops, and takes a deep, uneven breath.

The night is dark, and silent, which is why Leon finally, after all this time, all these weeks, allows the tears he’s been holding back to sting his eyes.

Gwen is gone. She was his friend, and she is gone.

Leon buries his face in his hands. Guilt gnaws at him. It has done so for a long time, and tonight, it seems stronger than him in every way. It even made him see things.

He is so preoccupied with it that he doesn’t realize that he is not alone until a branch cracks somewhere among the trees.

“Who’s there?” he calls, immediately on alert, regretting that he hasn’t brought his sword with him.

If he listens carefully, it sounds like there is someone walking away, their footfalls muffled by the soft forest ground. Leon, either through habit or folly, follows. After some wandering around, however, the only person he comes upon is Arthur.

The king looks up at him.

“That’s you, then,” he says, like he wasn’t particularly concerned that there might have been danger around either way. Perhaps that is because he clearly worries about something else.

Leon steps closer, eyes falling to the ground by Arthur’s feet. There is enough space between the trees here to let the moonlight through, which shines down upon a bundle of little white flowers springing from the grass. A few are missing.

It reminds Leon of the ones Gwen used to weave in her braids.

Arthur twirls one in his hand. He holds it up for Leon to see. “Guinevere once liked to wear flowers like these in her hair.”

“I remember,” Leon says.

It brings the hint of a smile to Arthur’s face, before he ducks his head.

“I thought for sure that she would have come through here,” he says, his voice quiet. “I thought, if she did, then…then I could prove that I still know what she would or would not do. That I really do know _her_.” He seems lost in thought for a moment, then scoffs. “But, I guess we all know that’s a lie.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Arthur,” Leon says softly. “Morgana deceived us all.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur allows. “But I am the king. My judgement is supposed to be better than that. Guinevere trusted me, she _told_ me that she couldn’t – ” He lets out a ragged breath. “I should have seen it.”

“A broken heart makes it hard to see the truth, sometimes,” Leon offers. “It’s understandable.”

“Will Guinevere understand, too?”

“I – ” Leon’s heart is in his throat. “I think she would, sire. But, um, there is something that – ”

Arthur suddenly looks up at him again. His eyes are wet.

“What if I can’t find her?” he asks, and Leon has never seen him like this, never heard him talk like that. There is no beast, no battle, nor tragedy, that he has ever known to make Arthur sound so frightened.

And there is no amount of privacy, Leon thinks, no cover of darkness, that will ever make him brave enough to tell the king the truth.

In the end, he only mutters, “I don’t know, Arthur.”

It just makes it worse, and Leon can’t stand it. As if to, mercifully, put him out of his misery, Arthur averts his gaze first, hiding his face in the shadows.

“So,” he speaks after a while, forcefully changing the subject, “why, uh, why are _you_ wandering about in the middle of the night?”

Leon shrugs helplessly. “I can’t sleep.”

“Is it about Guinevere, too?”

“Yeah,” Leon whispers. “Tonight, though, I think…the truth is, the one I remember most is…her mother.” He sighs. “She’s been on my mind so much that I even thought I saw her, before.”

Arthur nods along. “Guinevere never spoke of her much.”

“No, no she wouldn’t,” Leon says, “not after Sira left. She never said anything, not to anyone, but I…I’ve often thought, looking back, that _I_ should’ve known. I should have guessed that she planned to leave.”

It’s funny. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Now, his mind regurgitates the memories in the finest detail, as crisp and clear as the day they happened.

“Not long before she disappeared, Sira came to find me,” he goes on. “I was…only months away from earning my knighthood, and she…told me that I would make a fine knight. But that a _true_ knight, cares not only for his king, or his brothers, but also for his friends, no matter who they are. Friends like Gwen.”

He swallows. “She asked me to say that I would remember that, that I would always look after her, too, and I – ” he chuckles – “I did. The way I would make a solemn vow, like the knight I believed myself to be.”

_‘I swear it,’_ he’d said, _‘on my honor as a future knight of Camelot,’_ and Sira, like she used to when he was a boy, slowly smiled at him, and patted his shoulder with her roughened hand, and called him a good man.

“And now, I realize – ” Leon’s breath catches – “I did not keep that promise.”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head, and puts a strong hand on Leon’s shoulder. “You have nothing to blame yourself for. _I_ am the one who let Guinevere down, not you. You have _always_ been a true knight. I am sure that she would tell you the same.”

Leon would like nothing more than to believe that. That, even when she was alone, and frightened, and dying, his old friend still somehow remembered him fondly. He just can’t quite convince himself.

But, to humor his king, Leon manages a nod, and says, “I’m sure.”

 

 

* * *

****

 

At first light, they leave the inn to take the path due north. Arthur believes it is still the likeliest one for Gwen to have taken.

Percival – who wakes from a dream of the Old Kings’ round table, where Gwen stands in a blood-red dress and calls him a false knight, whilst Lancelot sits at her side in a blood-red cloak and calls him a false friend – does not have it in him to argue.

Yet, the road they are on is bound for Escetir. If they cross the border, and they are recognized, King Lot might have grounds for war. But single-minded as he is, Arthur might not care.

If Percival does nothing to stop it, he thinks, then he is a false knight.

Their journey continues mostly in silence, and Percival spends that time trying out conversations in his head, rehearsing the things he might say, the way he used to when he was a boy, each time he readied to confess his various mischiefs to his mother.

By the time they set up camp for the night, he still has not spoken a single one of these things that he’s practiced out loud.

Rest is hard to come by.

Percival stares up at the star-filled sky, listens to the crackling of their fire, and thinks about Lancelot.

He misses him. His first friend in Camelot, the first who gave him the chance to avenge his family after Cenred, and Morgause, and Morgana had taken them away. Without him, he never would have been a knight. He never would have met Arthur.

But the darkness of the forest invites equally dark thoughts. They creep at the edges of Percival’s mind, telling him that the guilt that plagues him like a disease now is deserved, that he’s forsaken his friend and now he pays the price. Viciously, they sneer, _‘and what for?’_

This is all just too little, too late now, isn’t it?  They’re scouring this land for a dead never-queen, only now that she is gone, now that remorse eats away at them – only now that she never did anything wrong.

Somewhere next to him, in the night, Merlin and Arthur are talking in whispers.

“I keep thinking, what if something’s happened to her?” Arthur’s voice is so low, Percival barely hears it. “What if she needs me?”

Even as his chest constricts, Percival thinks, ‘ _Is that really just occurring to you now?’_

It is so unpleasant, so unkind, that it startles him. No sooner has it crossed his mind, that he forcefully buries the thought so deep down that he may never find it again.

In the morning, at least, it feels like no more than a bad dream.

The terrain they’re crossing now is unfavorable to anything other than a leisurely trot, and Percival, pushed by either bravery, madness, or penance, urges his horse forward until he reaches Arthur, where he rides ahead of the rest of the party.

The moment the king spots him at his side, however, all words promptly abandon Percival.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence, until Arthur finally asks, “What is it?”

“I just…wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“You’re a good friend, Percival.”

He hears the smile in Arthur’s voice, and instead of making him glad, it fills Percival only with shame, because he is not one – not to Arthur, nor anyone else.

“I am not sure that’s true,” he mutters.

Arthur looks over to him, brow furrowed. “Why would you say that?”

“I – ” Percival shakes his head helplessly, biting his tongue. He is already regretting this.

“You’ve spoken to me freely before,” Arthur says. “Surely you can do the same now?”

Percival swallows – once, twice – then utters one word only. “Lancelot.”

His name makes Arthur freeze, before his chest rises and falls in a deep sigh. “Right,” he whispers, turning his eyes forward again.

“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” he goes on, like he can read Percival’s very thoughts. “It is I, and I alone, who misjudged…Lancelot’s actions, as I did Guinevere’s. I know you were good friends. What’s happened since…does not change that.”

Percival nods, swallowing. “Thank you, sire.”

“Was there anything else?”

This is it. His chance to finally be a good knight, be a good friend. Gwen would want him to. Lancelot would. He can end this, right now.

Arthur is waiting.

All at once, Percival remembers, starkly, why he needed to practice these things before making confessions to his mother. And why it never worked anyway.

He starts to ramble, and, in the end, all he manages to do, is just to trip over his own tongue, stammer out nonsense, then break Arthur’s heart in a whole different way.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“You told him that she’s probably found someone else by now?” Gwaine hisses at him once he’s fallen back into step with the others.

Percival is _physically_ pained. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

“Maybe next time,” Leon suggests, “just don’t say anything.”

Percival nods in vehement agreement. The look on Arthur’s face – when he said that men usually liked Gwen and that, after all these months, she’s probably settled down with one of them somewhere – is probably going to haunt his nightmares.

He sighs. “I’ve just made this worse, haven’t I?”

They do not say, ‘yes,’ in so many words, but their meaning comes through just the same.

When Arthur silently steers them off the main road and heads westward, Percival finally realizes why he chose this path to begin with. It leads to Longstead. The one place outside of Camelot that Gwen knows well.

The more the outline of the village sharpens in the distance, the more Percival’s stomach ties itself in knots. One glance at the others tells him they feel much the same.

The truth is just within Arthur’s reach now.

Even as he says that he doubts she will be found here, when they dismount, Arthur’s gaze nonetheless falls to every curious villager’s face, every pair of eyes lurking behind a window, like he still hopes one of them will, somehow, be Guinevere’s.

The villagers greet them with surprise, as Percival might expect. Mary and her husband John, Gwen’s old friends, are the ones to receive them. Out of hearing distance, their neighbors huddle together and whisper things in each other’s ears. Percival needn’t be a lip- or a mind-reader to know what they are saying.

‘ _Are they here for Guinevere?’_

Among the familiar faces, there are two Percival does not recognize, lingering by a heavy wooden cart. One, a man, eyes the knights and Merlin with suspicion, leisurely playing with a dagger in his hand. The other is a woman, a long braid of blonde hair falling down her back, whose hand rests on the hilt of a sword strapped to her belt.

They cannot possibly belong in this place.

“They’re…merchants,” Mary tells them. “They’re delivering supplies.”

Percival has seen this sort of thing enough times in his own village, to know that these people are not so much merchants, as they are smugglers. He says nothing.

If Arthur notices anything amiss, he makes no comment on it either. Instead, he speaks of their search, and Percival senses danger growing with each new word that falls from his lips.

In a desperate scramble, before Arthur gets to mention Guinevere’s name, he says, “But first, we should eat.”

Arthur stares at him, to which Percival shrugs. “I am…hungry, sire. Very hungry.”

It gets him a nod and a vague shrug in return, like there is no real surprise there.

There are tables set outside, likely, to serve as gathering points for the festivities of Beltane that approach. They sit down at one of them to eat, and while the food is mostly swill, Percival commits to his lie, and wolfs it down like it is last meal on this Earth.

As they are left alone to enjoy their meal, Gwaine clears his throat and begins, “Um, Arthur, before you…ask them about Gwen, uh…”

He never finishes, so Leon adds, “We’d like to…say something first.”

Leon never says what that is either, turning instead to Merlin, who, unfortunately, seems to have taken on the role of a mute.

So, Percival scrapes together every last bit of courage he still possesses, and says, “We know you hope to find answers here, but, sire – sire?”

Arthur is not listening.

He stares straight ahead, where the two smugglers stand together by the shade of a tree. The man puts a handful of flowers into the woman’s hand, and leans in to kiss her cheek. When she gives a bright smile in return, Arthur wrenches his eyes away, as if he cannot bear to watch it.

“Sire…”

Arthur stands from the table abruptly, then mutters something about time alone before wandering off.

He leaves a dreadful silence behind, broken only when Gwaine runs a weary hand over his face.

“Why can’t we do this?” he sighs. “Why can’t we just tell him the truth?”

“Because we are cowards?” Percival ventures.

“Well, how _can_ we tell him?” Leon asks. “All he thinks about, all he talks about, is seeing her again. I do not have the heart to tell him that he never will, do you?”

That question never gets its answer in words either, but that answer is, nonetheless, painfully obvious. Percival, shamefaced again for what he’s thought the night before, looks down to his shoes.

Some of the villagers approach them, slinking to the table like they are either wary or afraid. They ask why Elyan is not with them. Gwaine says that he has gone. Then they ask if that is because of Gwen.

“We don’t know,” Leon says, but Percival thinks that yes, of course it is.

Indulging some twisted curiosity, he asks _them_ what they know of her death. Some say it was bandits, others that it was Southrons. What Southrons would be doing so far from home, Percival has no idea.

According to one, they carried out a ruthless massacre, to another, a calculated raid. The attack came either at night or in the middle of a sunny day. A hundred victims or a dozen. Only one thing never changes.

Guinevere of Camelot is dead.

Then, Merlin speaks what might be his first actual words of the day. “Uh, gentlemen…we have a problem.”

Percival begins to ask, ‘what now?’ but he catches a glimpse of Arthur approaching Mary then following her inside her home, and his stomach drops.

 

 

* * *

 

  

Arthur asks Mary for a moment of her time in private, then sees himself escorted inside her home. It has not changed since the last time he was here.

Neither has Mary. She is still the humble, if fretful, good-natured woman he remembers, looking to Guinevere to reassure her she had any right to ask for his help.

“Was the food to your liking, m’lord?” she asks.

The few bites of it Arthur did have tasted rather like horse dung. “It was fine,” he says. “Thank you.”

It brings a tremulous smile to Mary’s face, before it falls. “You are here for Gwen, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Mary swallows. “Are you trying to find out what happened to her?”

Arthur nods. “I thought, perhaps – ” he takes a step closer – “she would have come here. After all, you are her old friend.”

If anything, he means it as a compliment, but it only upsets the woman. She hides her face from him, wringing her hands.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that what he sees in her, is guilt.

“She did come here, m’lord,” Mary’s voice is small, “months ago. She asked that we take her in. But – but we knew what she’d done, and our loyalty should – had to be, to you first, so…”

Cold slithers down Arthur’s spine. “You denied her shelter?”

Mary is on the brink of tears, and, in the moment, Arthur feels no remorse at causing it. She cowers a little before him, staring at the ground.

“You are our king,” is all she says.

“I never asked that of you.” Arthur shakes his head. “It’s not what I would’ve wanted.”

Though Mary does not yet speak to defend herself, she does lift her head and meet his eyes then, as if to say, ‘Well, what did you expect?’

It is Arthur who looks away this time. Gritting his teeth to stay his temper, he asks, “Do you know where she went?”

“She did not say. I do not think she knew it herself.”

The image of Guinevere, alone and friendless, forced to wander the same dark woods she dreads so much, crosses Arthur’s mind. He sees her as clearly as if she were standing right before him. She must have been so scared.

Arthur’s fists clench.

“But I did see her take the road heading farther north,” Mary adds.

Towards Escetir, then. It is what he might have expected. And it’s good, to think on that, to focus on road, and map, and detail. It’s easier. It lets him _breathe._

“You must believe,” Mary pleads, “that I – I never wanted – I regret it now, m’lord. We all do.”

She is looking to him with tearful, beseeching eyes, like she waits for his forgiveness. Arthur can’t give it.

He tries, to find the words, to keep a clear head. _North to Escetir,_ he thinks, _one day to the border. Trading route. Well-travelled. North. Escetir._

But Guinevere is there anyway, right in his mind’s eye, crying, begging him. She _begged_ him, and he didn’t –

What if she can’t forgive _him_?

Mary lets out a long sigh. “Oh, Tom would hate me,” her voice lowers. “Sira would _kill_ me.”

It is the second time Arthur has heard that name in only a few short days, when he cannot remember Guinevere, nor Elyan, ever mentioning it more than once. As Mary speaks of her now, there is no hesitation, no uncertainty behind her words. She means it.

It makes Arthur curious. Most of all, though, he welcomes the distraction. “Why do you say that?”

“No, of course, you never knew her.” Mary chuckles a little, a quiet and mirthless sound. “Sira…had a long memory. She might still do. And leniency…was never in her nature.”

Arthur is starting to understand why there was something so strangely subdued, almost fearful, in Leon’s voice when he told him of this woman.

“Elyan – ” Mary wipes under her eyes – “Elyan is more like her. If only because he bears her likeness. He looks… _so_ much like her.”

“And Guinevere?” Arthur asks softly.

“Mm, no. Gwen wasn’t like her. Well, perhaps – perhaps there was a little of her mother in her. In the eyes, mostly. But Sira…she _loved_ her, m’lord. So much so that, there are some nights, now,” Mary’s voice shakes, “when I fear that she will somehow learn what I did. And then she will come for me.”

Unease settles in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. He’s done satisfying his curiosity now.

“Well, um – ” he clears his throat – “I’m sure all will be well.” He’s not sure if he says it for Mary’s benefit, or simply his own. Probably the latter, because he adds, “As I am sure that, when Guinevere is found, you will have the chance to make amends. She will understand.”

That doesn’t get him the reaction he expects, either.

“But, sire – ” Mary frowns – “she’s – ”

The door bursts open, only to reveal Merlin carrying an armful of dishes, which he then proceeds to, clumsily, one by one, drop to the ground with a resounding ruckus.

In the deafening silence that follows, he looks down to the plates and bowls, then back up, then merely says, “These need washing.”

There’s always been something very wrong with Merlin. Arthur knows this. Today, however, it is neither his clumsiness nor complete lack of social etiquette that strikes Arthur as odd. It is the fact that this is the first time that he’s heard him _talk_ all day.

He’s been unusually quiet since last night – even, when Arthur thinks on it, ever since they left Camelot – and being quiet is just about the strangest thing that Merlin can be.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“Are you all right?”

Merlin hopes to avoid Arthur. Unfortunately, the latter follows him out of Mary’s home, after Merlin’s left a mess and run out of there. There is no one else around to occupy Arthur’s time instead, either.

“Me?” Merlin never turns around, just keeps walking. “Oh, I’m fine.”

“Come on.” Arthur laughs a little. “I haven’t heard you say a word all day.”

“I thought you liked it when I shut up?”

“I do, believe me,” Arthur says, “but it’s also unlike you.”

Well, what should he talk about?

Gwen getting killed? Knowing exactly what that looked like? How they’ve all been hiding it? How he sat with Arthur by the fire and listened to him talk about saving her only now that she is innocent?

Really, the possibilities abound.

“Well, my mother always said, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Merlin trudges along the path, not minding where he is going. He just wants to get away, just wants to shake Arthur off his back. If he doesn’t, he will break.

But Arthur is still on his heels.

“Mary says Guinevere went north, towards Escetir.”

“All right.”

“Could she be in Ealdor?”

Merlin’s chest is heavy, like there is something sitting on it, squeezing it. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be sure – ”

“I just am.”

“Merlin, is something wrong?”

_Gwen is dead,_ Merlin thinks. He damn near wants to shout it. She is _dead_. That’s what’s wrong, what’s always been wrong. _Gwen is dead._

“Nothing,” Merlin mutters. “Let’s just, uh, get on with this, yeah?”

“Oh, for _God’s_ sakes!”

Merlin stops, closing his eyes. _She’s dead._ He can’t take it anymore. When he slowly turns around, Arthur’s face is etched with anger.

“You know what, that’s it.” Arthur throws his hands up. “You – all of you – have been acting strangely ever since we left Camelot. It’s like you don’t even want to be here – and maybe, maybe the knights have their reasons, but I thought _you_ ,” his tone sharpens, “of all people, that you would want to find her! She was your friend!”

_She’s dead!_

“Yes!” Merlin bursts out. “Yes, she was, she was my friend, and you – _you_ sent her away!”

He’s shaking.

“I – I told you, I _told_ _you_ to let her stay in Camelot. But you said that she had to be gone, you said that she had to bear the consequences. Well, _these,”_ he bursts out, “are the consequences!”

_They might blame Arthur,_ Gaius’s warning tolls in his head again, and here, in this godforsaken village, staring at his king while his chest is so tight that he feels like he is suffocating, Merlin may finally, _finally_ , admit that he does, too.

“She was good, and loyal, and kind.” There are tears burning in his eyes. Merlin can’t remember when they got there. “She did everything right, and _you_ ,” he accuses, “you couldn’t forgive the _one_ thing, that she _ever_ looked to have done wrong, you made her leave, and now she’s – ”

_Now she’s dead._

He hurls it all at Arthur like stones, blindly, uncaring – all, except the worst of it, except the one thing that’s been killing him, so much slower than any wound.

If _Gwen_ could never earn enough favor for it to matter when she did wrong, then what hope will there ever be for _him_?

It makes no difference what he does. He can never be himself. He can never tell the truth.

Merlin’s shoulders slump. “Now she’s lost.”

But Arthur looks like he’s struck him, like he’s put a knife right through his heart, and Merlin immediately regrets every word that’s left his mouth. He tries to take it back.

Arthur speaks first. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I should have listened to you, Merlin. I should have let her stay. I know that.”

“I didn’t mean – ”

“Even if – even if she really had betrayed me. I can’t bear to think – ” Merlin has never heard Arthur’s voice break like that – “that she’s suffered, that something’s happened to her. Because of _me_.”

“Arthur…”

There are tears in Arthur’s eyes, too. “What if she hates me?”

The last of the fight drains out of Merlin. “No – ” he shakes his head – “no, she wouldn’t, Arthur. Not Gwen. Not you. Not ever.”

Arthur ducks his head, drawing deep, wet breaths to calm himself. He hides it quickly, and almost well, but Merlin can’t pretend he didn’t see it. That he doesn’t know, what it will do to Arthur, if he learns the truth. Merlin is the one who is supposed to protect him.

What is he going to do?

 

 

* * *

  

 

“They’re here for Guinevere of Camelot.”

Isolde lifts her eyes from the wares she is sorting. Tristan settles on the rock next to her. He has _that_ look.

“So?” she asks patiently.

“Who looks for a dead woman?”

Isolde shrugs. “If I had died far away from you, I’d like to think that you would go looking for answers, too.”

“Are you comparing _me_ to that halfwit king of Camelot?”

He sounds so indignant that she has to stifle a laugh. She gives him a soft kiss to appease him, then swears, “Never.”

“Good.” He nods, smiling fondly. But he still doesn’t let up. “This still doesn’t make sense, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Guinevere of Camelot,” Tristan says, “sounds an _awful_ lot like the girl we helped to smuggle out of Escetir.”

“Tristan…”

“You can’t tell me you don’t think the same.”

“We did a favor for a friend,” Isolde says simply. “That is all.”

“A friend who, clearly, didn’t warn us of who our cargo really was. And now, I’m sitting a spitting distance away from _Arthur Pendragon_.”

In fairness, the distance is quite a bit longer than that. “I don’t think him being here is Iseldir’s fault.”

“You don’t know that. He’s a Druid. They’re always…” Tristan gestures around vaguely. “You know.”

“He’s always been good to us,” Isolde points out. “I think he’s earned our trust. It is not our place to wonder why he asked us to do what we did.”

“Do you really not wonder because it is not your place – ” Tristan raises an eyebrow – “or because you, like I, have no idea why, of all the places on Earth, this girl had to be taken a _lake?_ ”

Isolde doesn’t answer.


	6. Nowhere

The border between Camelot and Escetir is a river, that runs through a deep valley formed by high mountains on either side. Mountains that loom in the distance, growing taller by the minute, as Arthur, his knights and Merlin cross the last portion of Camelot’s lands.

The truth of Gwen’s fate looms over them just the same, as Arthur urges them forward at a sure, brisk pace. Merlin feels it like an axe hanging over his head, just about ready to come down.

If Arthur crosses the border, he might start a war. Leon and Percival try to tell him that, coming to him as concerned knights, to which Arthur solemnly nods and says, “It is a risk we will have to take.”

When appealing to him as king fails, Gwaine attempts a different approach, gently suggesting that perhaps a smaller party should go first – maybe just him and Merlin, who know Escetir best – to ask around, see if there is even any point to looking for her there. To this, Arthur says, “No. I must see for myself.”

Two more villages and one tavern sit along the path between Longstead and the border. Arthur makes them stop in each, asking again about Guinevere.

And again, like at the inn outside the city, whomever he asks tells him they do not know her, have never heard of her nor seen her pass through. Lies, once more, bought easily enough. The knights have scarcely a coin left in their purses. But Arthur sours further with each new dead end; Merlin sees his patience growing thin.

They are running out of excuses. Out of time.

Clouds gather overhead, dark and heavy with unshed rain, as their party comes upon the edge of a forest, merely an hour’s ride from the border. Arthur stops his horse there, then turns to the rest of them with a contemplative sort of look.

“Druids offer shelter to anyone who needs it, don’t they?” he asks.

The knights exchange blank looks.

Merlin says, “It is in their nature.”

Arthur nods. “There’s a druid camp just east of here.” He gestures to the woods. “After they turned her away in Longstead, Guinevere could have gone there.”

“I don’t think she would’ve known about this place,” Leon comments.

“I told her about it,” Arthur says simply, already steering his horse towards the trees.

They’ve no choice but to follow. When the forest grows too thick to ride through, they continue the long trek on foot. The massive canopy of intertwined branches above casts long shadows, plunging them into darkness.

Merlin senses the Druids’ presence before they ever show themselves. They come out from behind the tree trunks, wearing long cloaks and hoods that hide their faces.

Arthur raises his hand for the knights and Merlin to halt.

Only the one at the forefront of the Druid party lowers his hood, and Merlin recognizes Iseldir, with his short, wavy gray hair and serious expression. His presence comes as no surprise. This is his usual camp.

Arthur must recognize him, too, because his shoulders stiffen.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Iseldir speaks. “It has been a long time since we saw each other last.”

If Merlin remembers it right, the last time they saw each other, Arthur put a sword to a child’s throat to extort Iseldir into handing him the Cup of Life.

“Quite,” Arthur acknowledges, his voice tight. When Iseldir says nothing further, he sighs. “I know it was not under the best of circumstances. You must believe that I regret my actions that day.”

“Because they ultimately brought unimaginable suffering upon Camelot?” Iseldir asks, perfectly calm.

“Well, um, yes, there is that, obviously – ”

“Or because you threatened to take an innocent child’s life?”

Arthur falls silent. At length, he quietly says, “Yes.”

Behind his back, the knights are trading glances amongst themselves once more. Of them, only Gwaine knows this story, only because he was there. Though the others do not utter a word, their surprise is palpable. Merlin only manages to catch Percival’s eye. His expression is inscrutable.

“Well, then,” Iseldir breaks the silence, “what would you have from us this time?”

“Only information,” Arthur assures.

Iseldir’s mouth lifts into a wry half-smile. “You are looking for Guinevere of Camelot,” he says. “Are you not?”

There is a beat before Arthur answers; Merlin can practically hear him frowning in confusion. “I am.”

Iseldir’s features grow serious once more. He shakes his head. “You will not find her here.”

Maybe it’s just because it’s Iseldir, and neither he nor any of his kind have ever spoken to him plainly in his life, but Merlin somehow feels that he should answer that sentence with, ‘Then where can he?’

Which is ridiculous, because Gwen _cannot_ be found. That’s the whole problem.

“Was she ever here?” Arthur asks.

“She was not.”

Again, something tells Merlin that’s not the whole truth, either. He feels it.

Just as he feels disappointment radiating off of Arthur. But he’s going to start asking more questions, just as soon as he catches on to the fact that the Druids seem to know exactly who Guinevere is when there should be no reason for that, if she was never here.

Merlin can’t have him learning that the reason everyone knows who Guinevere of Camelot is, is because they’ve heard that she is dead. He can’t find out like this.

_‘Don’t tell him,’_ he pleads, speaking to Iseldir’s mind. _‘Don’t tell him she’s gone.’_

He receives nothing in return. Iseldir hasn’t spoken to him once, in fact, none of them have, and that – that is strange.

As if on cue, Arthur says, “Wait – if you’ve never seen her, then how do you know who she is?”

“How we know what we know,” Iseldir says, “is yet beyond your understanding, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Right.” Arthur nods. “Well, then, uh...I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

He says his goodbyes and turns around to leave, while the rest of them follow. But as they walk away, Merlin finally does hear an unfamiliar woman’s voice in his head. It’s so old and rough, it almost sounds ancient.

_‘Emrys,’_ she says. _‘This is not the end.’_

 

* * *

 

  

Nothing is heard in the forest but the crunching of the leaves under their boots. Arthur walks ahead, leading the way back to the horses, his gait rigid.

Merlin hangs at the back of the party, every so often casting glances over his shoulder. The Druids have long gone out of sight, but they are still very much on Merlin’s mind. Something tickles at the back of it, like it did when Freya came to him in his dreams – like he should already know what it is that’s not right, like he should have guessed it by now.

He startles when Percival materializes at his side out of nowhere.

“Is it true?” he asks quietly. “What they said about Arthur?”

Gwaine and Leon walk in front of them, and though they pretend not to listen, the latter’s head turns around just so.

Merlin sighs. “Yeah.”

Percival slowly nods, eyes trained forward.

“It was years ago,” Merlin adds.

“I know,” Percival says. “I just didn’t think that’s the kind of man he was.”

“He’s not.” Merlin shakes his head. “He just – it was Uther, he wanted the Cup of Life. Arthur just wanted to do as he asked. He acted without thinking. You heard him, he regrets it.”

There is a beat, before Percival says, “Like he regrets what he did to Gwen.”

“Percival,” Leon says lowly, in a way that suggests this is not the first time he has been made to issue the same warning.

Percival gives a kind of twitch, the way a horse might shake its head in protest when its reins are pulled too tight, but speaks nothing further.

Merlin keeps his eye on him in the silence that follows. He has never heard Percival say a bad word about the king; not so much a suggestion of it. Then again, he has never heard Percival speak much at all. Always mostly just big and quiet.

Ahead of them, Arthur suddenly stops.

Then, without warning, he drives his fist into the nearest tree with a roar.

Merlin hurries forward. “Arthur – ”

“How can no one have seen her?” Arthur yells, whirling around. “From Camelot to Longstead? From Longstead to here? How can no one know where she is? She must have passed through, she must be _somewhere!”_

All of his fury seems gone from one moment to the next, as if washed away, and he sags, miserable, against the tree.

“She must be somewhere,” he repeats, so low now that it is barely heard.

Rain starts to fall in a light drizzle, pattering softly against the overhead leaves. Merlin continues to look on Arthur in silence, unable to speak. Beside him, Percival is staring only at the ground, as if ashamed.

It is Leon who speaks, taking a small, cautious step forward. The look he bears is one Merlin has seen on knights such as him before, when they come to knock on widows’ doors, and quietly tell them that their husbands will not be coming home.

“Arthur,” he asks, “what if she is not?”

Arthur slowly raises his head, his brow creasing. “What do you mean?”

It is not a particularly sad thing to hear him say. Merlin has heard worse than such a simple, innocuous question, especially from Arthur – and yet, his chest tightens, tears slowly pooling at the corners of his eyes.

The question itself is not the sad thing. No, the sad thing is that Arthur asks at all – that for all the death he has seen, for all that he expects it so often; for all the clues that he has and for all that Leon’s meaning is obvious, he still cannot imagine the possibility that Gwen is gone. It’s like his mind can’t form the thought.

_Don’t tell him,_ Merlin begs silently, senselessly, even as he feels that axe come to hang so low that it prickles the back of his neck.

“I – I know it is hard to hear – ” Leon stumbles over his words; they’re tentative, clumsy, nothing like the clear, direct way in which he speaks to widows – “but maybe, uh, maybe you should consider the possibility that...that Gwen truly cannot be found.” He swallows. “We can look, Arthur,” his voice softens, “but what if the reason we haven’t found her is that we just...cannot?”

The crease in Arthur’s brow deepens, like maybe he is starting to process the implications, and Merlin’s heart jumps to his throat.

Then the frown clears, and Arthur pushes away from the tree.

“No, no, Guinevere is wise,” he says, and Merlin has no idea what he’s talking about, until he adds, “Of course they wouldn’t know they had seen her anywhere but in Longstead. She must have known they would shun her. She would have hidden her identity. Perhaps she even disguised herself. She’s done it before.”

He’s nodding along, too, then, as if having sufficiently convinced himself of this new alternative, seems to brighten up, some of his vigor returning. He’s clearly not heard Leon at all.

Leon himself is looking helplessly towards the others for aid. None are forthcoming, and so Leon sighs, speaking no further.

“We continue on to Escetir,” Arthur says. His tone brooks no argument.

 

 

* * *

 

  

They climb the mountain ridge on Camelot’s side. Over the edge, they have an unobstructed view of the border river that runs below, following its course peaceful and undisturbed. Merlin feels like it is somehow taunting him.

Arthur makes a stop again, shushing his horse when it protests at the height it’s found itself on, his eyes assessing, as if working out the best path for the descent.

Merlin has had a lump in his throat and a weight in his chest since they left the forest an hour ago. Every further step they have taken to the border has only worsened it. The knights must feel much the same, for their expressions betray them. If the weight they all carry were a true, physical force, it would bend and break their backs. Not that Arthur seems to notice any of this.

Trying to buy a last smidgen of borrowed time, Gwaine says that they should pause to eat. Arthur is mildly displeased, possibly because in his mind, they are only wasting daylight, but he accepts nonetheless.

They settle further down the ridge, on a large and relatively even piece of terrain, upon which a patch of grass has grown, that the horses are now grazing on. The clouds are gathering again.

Merlin has to try three times before he lights a fire, drops the clay pots, and burns their food, though the knights don’t eat it anyway. Arthur hardly touches his either, deep in thought.

After a time, he seems to decide that this respite has taken long enough, and stands, taking a step towards the horses. The knights and Merlin spring to their feet, too.

Percival, fumbling and, having evidently come up with nothing better, just hastily says, “Sire, perhaps we should...wait.”

Arthur turns back. “Wait for what?”

Percival has no answer to this, so Leon valiantly starts, “I know what you said, my lord, but it – it is still dangerous to go to Escetir, we might be seen, we should – we should think about this – ”

Gwaine adds, “Lot will start a war, the moment we are spotted. He’s already only waiting for an excuse.”

These are all old arguments. Arthur purses his lips, a sign of his impatience.

Merlin swallows, then says, “Gwen wouldn’t want a war.”

That, it seems, is the only thing that gets through whatever thick haze envelops Arthur. He looks over to Merlin, then, sighing softly, gives a slow nod of his head.

He clicks his tongue, now assessing each man in turn, perhaps truly taking a moment to do so for the first time. They must make a pitiful sight. Arthur sighs again.

“I understand your concern,” he says with another measured nod. “I’m sorry that I hadn’t taken that into consideration. This journey is fraught with peril. Which is why...I cannot force you to take it with me.”

Merlin’s stomach is twisting. The knights are shaking their heads. “Sire, no, that’s not – ”

“If any of you wish to accompany me,” Arthur goes on – calmly, patiently, the way he always talks to his men when they are confused or frightened, “then I welcome it. If not, then I will go by myself.” The corners of his mouth turn down a little. “Ever since we set out of Camelot, I’ve had the sense that none of you want to be here. Whatever your reasons – ” he shrugs – “I respect them. All I can do, is thank you for having come with me so far.”

“Arthur…” Gwaine is pleading.

“So, if anyone wishes to venture into Escetir with me, please do. If not, so be it. But I have to go,” Arthur says, like he is helpless in the matter. “I have to find Guinevere. I have to bring her home.”

No one speaks for a long time.

The knights’ shoulders slowly slump, and to Merlin, it feels as though there is a shift in the air, as though they are all, as one, coming to the same conclusion. There is nothing left to do. They’ve run out of time. And the axe awaits.

Merlin remembers the old Druid woman from the forest, and thinks that she was wrong. This is the end.

Ever so quietly, Leon says, “I don’t think she’s coming home, Arthur.”

Arthur’s brow, of course, furrows. “What are you talking about?”

Gwaine takes a deep breath, then says, “You are not going to find her in Escetir.”

Arthur still doesn’t get it. “Why, where is she?”

Percival slowly shakes his head. “Nowhere, sire.”

It won’t sink in. Arthur looks them all over, incomprehension in his eyes as they flitter from one man to the next, until his gaze at last lands, and stays, on Merlin.

It is time for the axe to fall. And Merlin hates – most of all, more than anything – that he has to be the one who brings it down.

“Arthur,” he says, as gently as he can, “she’s dead.”

The axe comes down, leaving silence in its wake. Merlin has seen enough executions to know this, in its own way, is one, too. There is not a living thing in the mountain that makes a sound.

And Arthur stares at him – a blank stare, like he still doesn’t understand, like the words just don’t make sense strung together that way.

Then he heaves a ragged breath. “No – ”

“She _was_ in Escetir.” Merlin does his best to still keep his voice steady, still gentle. “In a village. But it – it came under attack, and they…” _They killed her._ “They spared no one.” He swallows. “I am sorry, Arthur. She is gone.”

He can’t bear the look in Arthur’s eyes. They are frantically going over each man again, like he’s waiting for one of them, anyone, to tell him otherwise, to tell him it’s a lie. But the knights, as one, solemnly nod their heads.

Arthur shakes his. “You – you don’t know that.”

“Everyone knows,” Leon says. His voice is thick. “Even – even in Camelot. It’s the talk of the five kingdoms.”

Arthur still denies it. “No, that – that doesn’t make sense – ” it’s like he struggles to breathe – “no one – no one said anything, it – she’s not – she can’t be – ”

“It’s true, sire,” Percival says. “We – we asked, in Longstead. They say that, um, that those who – who took care of the – the dead, after, they – they saw her, too, they...” He doesn’t get further than that.

Gwaine finishes for him, barely above a whisper. “They took her to the funeral pyre, too.”

Merlin shuts his eyes.

It all flies through his head again. Gwen, dragging a cart down an empty street, disappearing into the dawn. Again, in the middle of the Great Hall, blood running down every part of her, before she is gone. The villagers in Longstead, saying her body was burned with the rest of them.

There is nothing left of her.

When Merlin opens his eyes again, all emotion has drained from Arthur’s face. It’s like it’s made of stone.

He looks straight at Merlin, and utters one word only. “When?”

Merlin barely manages to speak. “It – it happened just before Ostara.”

“Ostara?” Though Arthur’s voice is deathly calm, it feels like he’s taken a whip and cracked it against Merlin’s skin. “That was _weeks_ ago.”

“I am sorry we did not tell you,” Merlin says miserably. “We didn’t know how.”

“You lied to me.”

Again, though he means all of them, he is watching Merlin, like he committed the worst offense, like he betrayed him worst of all. Merlin’s stomach sinks. 

Then, Arthur asks, “Where was this?”

The knights try to protest. “Sire – ”

All of Arthur’s composure disappears as quickly it came.

“WHERE?” he bellows suddenly. It’s so loud, it frightens birds off a nearby tree. “TELL ME!”

And his face twists, so deeply that he barely looks like himself anymore. Merlin has never seen him so angry.

“Just over the border,” Gwaine’s voice almost sounds small as he answers. “First village heading west.”

Pulling in air through his nose like a raging bull, Arthur turns on his heel, marching straight for his horse.

They take off after him, Merlin first. “Arthur, please, there’s no point – ”

He whirls on them. “You expect me to just take some strangers’ word that she is gone?” he demands. “They don’t know her!”

“But, sire – ” Leon starts.

“Guinevere is clever,” Arthur cuts him off, “and resourceful. She – she could’ve fled! She could’ve – for all I know, she was never even there!”

It might have perhaps, under different circumstances, convinced the knights. But Merlin knows. He saw her. She said goodbye.

“She could be hiding,” Arthur barrels on, “or frightened, or – injured in some way, and instead of looking for her in the right places, I have _wasted_ over a week wandering around like an _idiot_ , because you all chose to lie to me!”

“We – we tried – ”

_“How could you not tell me?”_ Arthur yells.

Merlin flinches. He can’t hold back his tears anymore. They spill down his cheeks, but the sight doesn’t move Arthur in any way. Neither do the knights’ beseeching, crestfallen faces.

That stony look returns to Arthur’s own face. “I am going to find her,” he says with finality, mounting his horse. “I don’t need any of you for it.”

And he rides off.


	7. The Queen Is Dead

**_Twenty-five years ago_ **

 

On the night that Prince Arthur is born, a storm descends on Camelot, submerging the city in heavy rain and filling the air with the sounds of rolling thunder.

Gaius holds the newborn, swaddled in a bundle of white cloth, as the little thing wails and waves its tiny, clumsy fists at the world. Gaius shushes him and the babe settles down, his small, round face red. There isn’t a single hair on his head. When he finally opens his eyes, they are the same striking blue as his mother’s.

She is already dead.

Gaius looks from the child to the bed where she lies, her body and clothes covered in blood. The mood in the birthing quarters is somber, mournful. Nimueh stands at the foot of the bed, silent and grave as she meets Gaius’s eyes, then glances down at the bundle in his arms. They are the only ones who know why Ygraine is dead.

It is for the boy. It is the price of magic.

A midwife takes him out of Gaius’s hold, to wash him of his mother’s blood. As she does, her brethren and the maidservants in the room converge towards the bed with fresh water and towels, to wash that same blood off Ygraine herself.

Sira, with her long braid of dark hair, carefully picks up her skirts and settles with one knee on the mattress, dipping a cloth in water. She has briefly returned to Camelot from one of her wanderings, to see that boy she likes – Tom, Gaius thinks his name is – to try and convince him to come with her.

Her eyes – dark, pretty, and cunning – slant in his Gaius’s direction as she works, then in Nimueh’s, as if she knows this tragedy is not all that it seems; as if her mind, which has always worked fast, is putting the pieces of it together. She looks back at Gaius, as if asking for the truth. Gaius will never tell.

Sira silently turns her head back around and takes one of Ygraine’s ring-studded hands, then gently starts to clean it.

The boy is now clean, too, lost in the many folds of fresh blankets that he has been wrapped in. They put him back in Gaius’s hands. He is quiet now, calm, blinking those eyes of his at the world around him.

Gaius will love him like he is his, he knows it already. He wonders if he and Alice should think about children. Not their own, of course, they have gotten too old for that. But, perhaps, someone else’s – perhaps, a boy just like this one, that they can look after; that they can teach all the great, wondrous things that they know about healing and magic.

For a moment, that’s what Gaius thinks about, forgetting the sight and smell of death around him. Perhaps he could even ask Balinor to bring Kilgharrah around. How the boy’s bright eyes might light up at that; at seeing a real, great dragon.

Water splashes in a bowl somewhere and the spell breaks. Gaius remembers where he is and whom he holds; worse, what he knows and what he must do.

The midwife Kara comes to stand at his side, and together, they walk out of the birthing room and down the hallway, to where the king awaits.

When Gaius enters, Uther is pacing his chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. Ygraine’s brothers sit behind him.

Tristan de Bois, fair-haired like his sister, with patches of grey coming in at his temples, is as imposing in this room as he would be in any other; his height, even when he is seated, reminds of the half-giants that near extinction, and his broad shoulders and deep, penetrating eyes, almost black in color under the candlelight, will strike fear even into the fearless. (He will die before his nephew has lived a full week, at Uther’s hand, though Gaius does not know this yet. No more than he knows that on the night his nephew comes of age, Tristan will return, at Nimueh’s hand, as a soulless, vengeful wraith.)

Agravaine, sitting at his side, is much different. Shorter, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed, though his eyes lack the depth, the gravitas that his brother possesses. Where Tristan is serious, Agravaine is still boyish, still young. He was Ygraine’s favorite. (He will never love her son.)

While Uther lifts his head with undisguised excitement, Tristan and Agravaine’s mood seems to match Gaius’s; it is as if they already know, as if they’ve already felt it, and now only wait for the final blow.

Gaius approaches, and presents his offering to the king. “You have a son, my lord.”

Uther’s face, before he even glances at the boy, lights up. Of course he is happy. It is everything he wanted. A son, to carry on his name and his legacy; to be the future king. Gaius knows that is the boy’s destiny, though it is hard to imagine it yet, when he is still smaller than a loaf of bread.

Leaning in to inspect his new heir, Uther’s mouth turns up in a smile. Gaius is sure he has noticed his eyes. Uther touches the babe’s hand with his finger, and the latter’s little fist wraps around it, gripping it. The king’s smile widens.

“Arthur,” Uther decides, drawing back. “His name will be Arthur.”

_Arthur Pendragon,_ Gaius thinks. It is the name of a king to remember. It must be why Uther has chosen it.

He does not ask to hold his son, giving a final nod. Gaius transfers Arthur into the midwife’s hands, and silently pleads with her to take the boy away quickly. Kara seems to understand, and obeys. (And Kara, who has a gentle, magic-like touch with the mothers she cares for, and whose brother is married to a Druid girl, will be burned at the stake in a fortnight.)

The door shuts behind her. Somewhere down the hall, the sounds of it muffled by the thick, stone walls, Arthur starts to cry.

“And Ygraine?” Uther asks, his smile bigger at the thought of her than it ever was at the sight of Arthur. “How is she?”

Gaius stares into Uther’s bright, happy face. Can it really be, he wonders, that the king cannot guess the outcome? Has he really not sensed it coming – does he not sense, now, even in his haze of glory, the mood around him? Has he not seen the tears in Kara’s eyes and the looks on his brothers-in-law’s faces?

Has he really never heard Nimueh’s warnings at all?

It is as if he is impervious to it. Always so sure of himself. Always convinced that the balance of the world will repaid with someone else’s life. Always believing that Ygraine will live.

And Gaius feels the world unravelling around him, slowly unspooling, before the war ever comes. (When it does, he will learn that the world always does go on; that there is no change that he cannot bear, and that there is, perhaps, always hope. But that night, he looks into the future and sees only the dark ahead. This, he thinks, is the end.)

“I am sorry, my lord.”

Uther’s brow furrows only slightly, as if he cannot guess Gaius’s meaning, as if the thought cannot even cross his mind.

As gently as he can, and while his heart crumbles in his chest, Gaius says, “The queen is dead.”

Everything changes after that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Present day_ **

 

Arthur crosses the border into Escetir at a reasonably-paced trot, mindful of the terrain, then, having emerged on the other side of the riverbank, kicks his horse’s shins and forces it into a gallop.

Branches blur and whip around him as he hurries along the uneven forest road. No one intercepts him, and no border guards take a shot at him from the trees. He thinks he might hear a dull thud and rustling leaves here and there a handful of times, but he doesn’t look back to check.

No more than he turns to check on what are surely horses following him at a distance. It’s Merlin and the knights, and Arthur knows that, and he does not care.

He doesn’t need them. They made a fool out of him. They lied to him. And they are wrong. Guinevere is not – she’s not – they’re wrong.

This conviction does little to ease the knot of worry in Arthur’s stomach. Attacks, raids, are violent. If she was in this village, then she could be hurt, and that thought makes a vice tighten around Arthur’s lungs. It is just like when Agravaine had presented him with the enchanted bracelet, and there had been a moment, when Arthur’s mind had caught up with what he’d done, where he couldn’t even _breathe_ , where invisible hands were wringing the air right out of his lungs, where he felt like he was drowning.

It happened again, when he was alone in his chambers, and the maps were strewn across his table, and all he could think about was that he didn’t know where she was. The land on the map stretched out before his eyes, like an infinite wasteland of unknown places, and dreadful outcomes, and unforeseen perils, and his chest tightened, his vision blurring, and he had to brace against the table just to keep upright. He didn’t know where she was.

He still doesn’t know where she is.

She could have fled. She could have been taken. The possibilities are many, and each is worse than the last. If she did flee, then where would she go? If she was taken, then where is she now?

No matter, Arthur decides, forcing his lungs to work again, to take in air. He will find her. Because she is alive. Whoever it was they took to that funeral pyre, it’s not her. It’s not Guinevere. They’re wrong.

There is a fork in the road and Arthur takes the past heading west, as Gwaine said. The sounds of four pairs of hooves echo behind him.

He rides for maybe a half-hour before he comes upon it. He pulls his horse to a stop where the forest ends and the village begins, and for a while, he only lets his eyes take in the place.

There is no mistaking what happened here. The couple dozen houses that cluster around a single, narrow street all bear signs of the attack. Some have broken windows or pieces missing from their roofs. Most have been burned. Some even right to the ground. Only the shadows of their foundations remain. Some carcasses remain in the pigsties, too, dried to the bone and incomplete, as if parts of them had been scavenged by wild animals.

The ground has been deadened by horses’ hooves, entire patches of grass missing, replaced instead by overturned dark soil. Weeds have started to grow here and there. Beyond the houses, the small fields of crops have been burned, too.

Arthur knows the kind of attack it takes to raze a village to the ground like this. He can practically imagine it. The men, the horses, the fires; the blood and the screams.

To think of Guinevere in the middle of that –  

Arthur shakes the thought away and dismounts, tying his horse’s reins to a tree. The animal neighs, as if hating to find itself trapped in this place, and Arthur shushes it softly.

He steps further into the village, assessing it. Horses and voices sound behind him. Merlin and the knights have caught up with him, their boots hitting the ground as they dismount, too.

“If you want to make yourselves useful,” Arthur says without turning back, “then spread out and see what you can find.”

He doesn’t look to see if they’ve obeyed. He strides forward, undertaking his own search. The first house he inspects is barely standing, its door swinging eerily on its hinges under the cold breeze. The inside and the adjacent pigsty are burnt to a crisp, but Arthur manages to make out the phantom outline of the furniture that once stood there.

The four, square markings on the floor, where a table used to be. The frame of a bed behind a torn screen, large enough for two. Behind a different screen, toward the outdoor pigsty, there are the remains of what must have been a cot; a thin, charred mattress and piece of a blanket, and something about that sight makes Arthur think of the bags of grain behind the screen in Guinevere’s home, where she once slept because he couldn’t think of anyone but himself, and she had to make room for him. A lump lodges itself in his throat.  

Someone else enters the house, drawing him out of his thoughts. It’s Leon, whom Arthur spares only a cursory glance, but who approaches slowly, hesitantly.

“Have you found anything?” Arthur demands.

“Um...no, sire.”

“Then why are you here?”

Leon sucks in a sharp breath. “I...I just wanted to say I’m sorry. We all are, Arthur, you must believe that. We tried to tell you, we did, we just...we didn’t know how...”

“I’ve no use for your excuses,” Arthur says.

“I understand,” Leon replies quietly. “But we...” He sighs. “Let _us_ look, sire. You don’t have to...put yourself through this. We’ll look, we’ll search what’s left of the village, if...if there’s anything at all, we’ll find it, we’ll bring it to you.”

Arthur finally does glance over his shoulder, levelling Leon with a hard stare. “You think I’d believe anything you say?”

Leon looks pained. “My lord, please...”

“Enough,” Arthur cuts him off, then, casting one more look about the house, turns on his heel and walks out, brushing past Leon without a word.

He draws a deep breath in the open air. It smells of rain, heavy and humid. The dark clouds above foretell an oncoming storm.

Gwaine, Percival and Merlin are loitering around, overturning some debris and half-heartedly pushing at doors of nearby houses and cottages. Arthur doubts they’re even trying. They lift their eyes to him as one, watching him with troubled expressions. He ignores them all, stalking off.

He rounds the row of houses, intending to head towards the crop fields. There’s a small clearing just on the other side, and there, Arthur stops as his eyes land on its center.

It’s the funeral pyre.

Stones have been stacked to raise it above the ground, and more have been placed in a circle around it, to contain the flames and catch the falling embers. It’s big enough to fit at least three dozen bodies. Its surface remains covered in their ashes, some of them still being slowly carried away by the wind.

As Arthur approaches it, more steps are heard behind him. They’re following him like flies.

“Arthur...don’t,” Merlin calls after him.

Arthur pretends he doesn’t hear. He almost wants to scoff at the dread in Merlin’s voice, too. There’s no reason for it. The thought of all those bodies burning is terrible in its own right, but none of the charred pieces of bone he sees peeking through are going to be Guinevere’s; none of the loose teeth mixed in with the ashes will have come from her mouth. Because they’re wrong. They’re all wrong.

Guinevere’s not here. She can’t be here. He’ll find her, he will, he still has time, because she is out there, somewhere. Not _here_. Whoever said she was, whoever first started this rumor, they got it wrong. He knows better. He knows _Guinevere_ better. They’re wrong.

He comes to the edge of the pyre, reaching with his gloved hand towards it. Lightning flashes across the sky, thunder cracking in the distance.

Arthur carefully sifts through the ashes. The bones and teeth he spotted earlier slip through his fingers, spared by the flames but streaked with soot. Lighting flashes again, and something small and round glints in the pile.

Arthur picks it up, brushing away the smudges with the pad of his thumb, then holds it up between his fingers. The fire has distorted its shape slightly, dulled the gold’s shine, but he’d know it anywhere.

It’s the betrothal band he gave to Guinevere.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin watches Arthur approach the remnants of the funeral pyre with mounting dread.

It’s been sitting like a hard ball at the pit of his stomach ever since they crossed the border into Escetir. Even as he diligently followed, even as he used his magic where the king and the knights could not see, to knock the border guards out and to tip them from their perches on the surrounding trees – even as he brought him to this dreadful, desolate place, all Merlin wanted was to make him stop and turn back. Arthur shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have to _see._

The hairs at the back of Merlin’s neck stand on end, a chill he can’t explain slithering down his spine. He calls after Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t listen, he just keeps going forward, keeps moving closer to it.

The knights stand beside Merlin, watching the same thing, as silent as a grave.  

A lightning bolt splits the clouds, then another. Thunder rolls overhead, and Arthur reaches with his hand into the ashes and pulls something out. Merlin can’t see what it is, but Arthur holds it up between his fingers, head bent as he inspects it. He goes perfectly still.

And Merlin just knows.

Time must continue to flow the same way, but to Merlin, it seems to have slowed down to a crawl. Everything stands as if frozen in place, the deafening silence broken only by the rumbling thunder. Then it starts.

Arthur makes an awful sound.

It’s so wretched that Merlin’s heart stops dead in his chest. He’s never heard Arthur make that sound – men whose limbs are being torn off don’t make that sound, and Merlin feels the childish urge to cover his ears against it, to screw his eyes shut, to just pretend it’s not happening.

Gwen’s ring slips from Arthur’s hand and falls to the ground, and he draws his sword, bringing it down upon the stones of the funeral pyre.

“Arthur!” Gwaine yells over the thunder and the cries, but Arthur doesn’t hear.

He just keeps hacking away at the stones, again, and again, and again, as the clouds open and the rain falls in a thick, loud downpour. It’s so loud that it drowns out of everything else – everything except for Arthur, whose face contorts, who fills the air with endless, terrible sounds, as his blade beats down upon the stones, the same way the rain is beating down upon him.

Merlin has the oddest sense of being transported into the past – as if he were standing once more in the pouring rain, drenched to the bone and knowing that he is the reason Morgana is dying, while he watches Arthur – grieving, angry, helpless Arthur – strike relentlessly down upon his training dummy, until his sword dulls and the dummy turns to sawdust.

Except this is worse. Merlin can’t fix _this._

No one can.

With a final roar, Arthur stops and throws away the sword, his chest heaving. There are deep marks left on the stones. The sword’s been chipped.

And Arthur stumbles back a step, swaying in the spot. Then he falls to his knees.

Merlin starts to rush forward, but Gwaine puts a hand on his chest to stop him, shaking his head. His eyes are heavy with tears.

Merlin’s own tears are running freely down his cheeks, mixing in with the rain coming down on them. It eventually stops, too, dwindling down to sparse, light drops.

Arthur starts to cry.

Merlin’s heart lurches, but he doesn’t try and move this time. Gwaine tugs on his sleeve, and he lets himself be led away, back towards the ravaged houses.   

Even as he numbly trudges after the knights, Merlin can’t help but look back. Arthur is still on the ground by the pyre, his face in his hands and his shoulders shaking – and Merlin thinks again that the old Druid woman was wrong and that this is the end; that there is only the dark ahead, and that there is nothing Merlin can do to set it right again.

Everything is going to change now.


	8. Remember Me

The weather has turned in Camelot, bringing on an unrelenting torrent of rain and cold wind. The people have taken refuge inside the Rising Sun, warming their hands and bellies with mulled wine and mead as they dry by the fire in the hearth.

Maera sits alone at a table in the corner, nursing her own cup as her patrons mill about. It’s not so bad being an innkeeper’s wife today. Everyone, for once, is quiet, speaking either in whispers or not at all. It is as if the same dark cloud has descended over them all.

The door opens to reveal Sirs Lucien and Bryan, whose cloaks are drenched and who shake their heads like wet dogs, spraying waterdrops everywhere. It is her Jeffry who serves them once they choose a table, their chairs scraping the floor as they settle in. There’s something not quite right about that image, Maera thinks, about it being just the two of them – then, she remembers that where are now two there used to be three, and that the other young one, Sir John, died on Ostara.

And that – like the rain, like the mood, like everything – makes her think of Gwen.

Jeffry hands the knights their drinks, then catches her eye as she looks on. Sighing softly, he joins her in her lone corner, the bench creaking under his weight as he sits. They’ve been husband and wife long enough that he needn’t speak for her to know what question he’s asking.

“It’s because I’m thinking about her,” she says quietly.

Jeffry nods. “I am, too. We all are.”

Maera shies away from his understanding gaze, turning her eyes towards the window instead. The rain continues to patter against it, making little rivers run along the glass. 

It’s been almost a month now, since Jeffry came back with the news. And Maera has an odd feeling in her breast; like she’s been here before – back when her bones didn’t ache, and her hair was luscious instead of brittle and greying, and her skin was still young and smooth –, like the past has become the present, and the present has become just a memory.

“It used to rain like this after Queen Ygraine died, too,” she says, “do you remember that?”

“It didn’t stop for a fortnight,” Jeffry agrees softly.

“Aye,” Maera says. “And we were just like this, all of us, every day – just sitting here, at the same tables, drinking the same drinks. Except – except Tom used to sit here.” She pats the worn wood of the table she sits at now, her voice quaking. “And then Sira…Sira would come through that door – ” she lifts a finger towards it – “and she’d be crying because the knights were killing her sorcerers, and then the knights would come, and they’d be angry because the sorcerers had killed their queen, and they said they’d fight the king’s war until they had killed them all, and then they kept dying, too, and – ”

Jeffry shushes her, covering her hand with his. “That won’t happen now,” he says. “There will be no war.”

Maera finally lifts her teary eyes to his. “He blames the witch Morgana,” she says. “That’s what everyone’s saying. That _he_ says she caused this.” She sniffles, shrugging helplessly. “It’s sorcerers again, Jeffry. It’s always sorcerers with them.”

“My darling…”

“But you remember what Sira used to say, don’t you?” Maera barrels on. “She used to say that it was Uther, she’d say it every day, and we – we told her that she was mad, that she ought keep her mouth shut or she’d doom us all, and we kept telling her that until she stopped, but do you know what, she was right, she’s always been right, like Theos is right now – ”

“ _Maera_.”

“Because Uther blamed them for Ygraine, and now his son blames them for Gwen, but he is the one who did it, he is the reason she’s gone, he conspired to send her away, I know he did, Theos is right – ”

“All right, that’s enough now,” Jeffry tells her gently but firmly, flashing her a look of warning.

Maera bites her tongue against the rest of the words that threaten to spill out of her – and it’s habit, that she still casts a furtive look around as a twinge of fear settles in her gut, to make sure that no one’s overheard, that the king’s men aren’t watching her.

But the two younglings who came in pay her no mind, their heads bent together as they talk in whispers.

“I don’t know if Theos is right or not,” Jeffry says, “but whatever else he’s done, Arthur has been good to us, he’s been a good king. He’s not like his father. Gwen…Gwen always used to say that.”

She did. And Maera believed it – as long as Gwen was of this world, she believed it. Even when the others started doubting it, she stayed true. But now Gwen is dead, and she is gone, and Maera’s eyes have opened. Arthur fooled her so she’d fool them, didn’t he? So that they would stand by him even when they were dying at Morgana’s hand, even when he killed a king and almost started a war with Caerleon; even when he almost started one again with Nemeth.

That he is a good king is now just something that Gwen used to say.

“She did always have faith,” Maera says. “And look where it’s gotten her.”

Pain flashes across Jeffry’s face. He lets out a long sigh. “Not all girls get the life that they deserve,” he says. “Maybe she was just one of the unfortunate ones.”

“And maybe the misfortunes of girls like her,” Maera says, “are made by men like him.”

“Or maybe by witches like Morgana.”

Maera huffs. “Oh, come on, Jeffry,” she lets out. “How do you believe that so easily? What reason would Morgana have to do any this? To expend so much time and energy conspiring against a serving girl?”

“A serving girl who was going to be _queen_.”

“So? It is not _that_ crown that Morgana desires. She longs for the king’s throne, not for that of a consort,” Maera says. “It makes no sense. Why would she care about Gwen?”

Jeffry sighs again, his voice quiet as he says, “A month ago, you would have agreed with me.”

“A month ago, I was a fool,” Maera says fiercely. “I was blinded by complacence, by faith – by Gwen’s faith, I was blind to that which is obvious, which has _always_ been obvious to the likes of Theos, of Sira. But now I see. And it is time that you see it, too,” she urges. “No matter what he said, or did…she never truly mattered to him.”

Jeffry is quiet for a time, his brow creasing. “Is it so bad that I liked to believe it?” he eventually whispers. “That he was different, and that…that she did matter, that we _all_ mattered to him? That he could love one of _us_ like it was one of _them?”_

Maera casts a sidelong glance at the two knights, still talking in whispers. They’re commoners, too, and Arthur loves _them_ , doesn’t he? Like he loved Elyan and Lancelot, and still loves Sir Gwaine, and Sir Percival, and a dozen others.

Is it just because they are men, and that they are handy with a sword, and that they make good knights? Does that make them worthy in his eyes? Or is that just like it was with Gwen – just part of the farce, just a way to make them think that _they_ are important to their king? That they _matter_?

Theos has always said that all Pendragons are the same. And after all this time, after the illusion has been washed away, Maera finally sees what he’s been seeing since the start. Arthur is not special, he is not different. He is no better than his father, or his sister; just cleverer. Just smart enough to make them _believe_.

“Kings only love those who are of use to them,” Maera says. “But in the end, we are all dispensable, my darling. Just like Gwen was.”

Jeffry’s composure finally cracks, his face crumpling with that same sorrow that Maera feels, and it breaks her heart, but it’s the truth, and the truth _hurts._

She shrugs. “What’s another serving girl to a king?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The whole world’s stopped again.

It must continue its course, uncaring and undisturbed, but to Arthur, it feels as if everything has been brought to a grinding halt, a perfect standstill. The light fades around him while he sits with his back to the stones of the funeral pyre, barely moving.

And he stares at the ring in his hand the way he stared at that cursed bracelet, and it doesn’t make sense either. He holds it so it must be real, but it _can’t_ be real. It can’t be here. It’s not supposed to be here. He was so sure.

A sense of urgency still fills him, like he’s still supposed to be looking instead of sitting here paralyzed and staring at a burnt ring. Every fiber of his body screams for him to move, to keep searching farther, to just look harder. He’s slacking, he’s wasting time, because she’s still out there, and she’s still lost, and maybe she’s frightened, and she still needs him. He still has to find her. He can’t have found her here.

He was so sure he wouldn’t find her here.

At twilight, Merlin’s lone shape emerges from the shadows, venturing back towards the pyre. He slowly crosses over to Arthur, then lowers him lowers himself to the ground beside him.

“I am so sorry, Arthur,” he says thickly.

Arthur lifts his head with great effort, meeting Merlin’s bright, teary eyes. He thinks he should feel angry again, because Merlin’s a liar – because he’s been keeping secrets, and he’s made a fool out of him – but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel angry anymore. He just feels lost.

 “I…I don’t understand,” he says, and he sounds like a frightened boy to his own ears. “I thought…I thought I could find her, I thought…” His breath catches. “I didn’t think this would…I never thought…I thought I would find her.”

“I know,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur sniffles. “Well, maybe…maybe there’s another explanation, maybe it got there some other way.” It’s desperate, he knows that, but he clings to it with both hands.  “Maybe someone just…found it and put it in there, it doesn’t mean that she was…that she was…in here, maybe it’s just…”

Merlin slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s true, Arthur.”

Something twists violently inside Arthur’s chest. Merlin always gives him hope. He always finds a way to make it right. Why isn’t he doing that now? Arthur needs him to do that now.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’d like nothing more than to believe it,” Merlin says, “but I think…I think you and I both know what this means. They weren’t wrong. She’s…she’s gone, Arthur, she’s gone now. She’s not coming home.”

Arthur hates that he’s right. Deep down, he knows it, too. He holds the proof in his hand.

But he thought he would find her. He really thought he would find her.

“I didn’t want this,” he says, choking on the words, “I…I didn’t want to lose her.”

Merlin nods. “I know.”

Arthur looks back down to the ring. He keeps running his thumb over the edge of it, like it will smooth away the imperfections the fire has dealt it, like it will set it right and make it all better. This can’t be all that’s left of her. This can’t be it. It just can’t be.

And he can’t think about it. He can’t think about her being _gone_ ; about her in this wretched place, surrounded by bloodshed and violence and fire, about her being frightened, knowing that she was going to –

About her – her burning, with all those bodies, right where he sits, just –

Bile rises in his throat. He feels sick, and he doesn’t want to think about it, it kills him to think about it – except it’s _all_ he can think about, it’s all his mind will let him see even as he desperately tries not to. Guinevere, his Guinevere – drenched in blood, and surrounded by fire, and suffering in this godawful place, while he was in Camelot, pretending she did not exist, pretending he didn’t care, making plans to marry –

The whirlwind in his mind suddenly stops. A new thought takes over it. It is as if he is only just now realizing it.

“You knew.” He turns back to Merlin, frowning. “When did you know?”

Merlin swallows. “I…what?”

“You said it happened just before Ostara,” Arthur says, “but when did _you_ know?”

“Arthur…”

“ _When?_ ”

Merlin’s face crumples, tears swimming in his eyes. He looks so guilty. “On – ” his voice quakes – “ _on_ Ostara. Word…word spread fast.”

Something twists inside Arthur’s chest again. “So, when – ” he can barely wrench the words out – “when I asked you, when – when I asked you what I should do, and you said I should marry Mithian, you – you _knew._ ”

“I…I’m sorry,” Merlin stammers, “I…I thought it would be better that…that way, I thought…I just wanted to protect you – ”

Arthur’s anger returns, as white-hot and blinding as it was before. “And them?” he demands, jerking his head towards the destroyed houses, where the knights must be lurking, hiding – conspiring to keep things from him again. “Did they know then, too?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, but it is obvious. _It’s the talk of the five kingdoms,_ Leon had said. They knew. Even in Camelot, they knew. They all knew.

They just stood there and watched him with Mithian, listened to him talk about marrying her, just let him –

He suddenly remembers George on the morning of Ostara, scurrying away like a kicked dog. The knights during their hunt, quiet and somber, all of them just _looking_ at him, just staring, like they were waiting to see something. He remembers Percival, standing in his chambers with that sad, mournful look in his eyes, and telling him that the knights could not attend his wedding. That they missed her. That they could not bear to see another take her place, even if there was no point to it now, now that she was _gone_.

“Did they think _I_ knew?”

Merlin gulps, then slowly nods his head.

“So, they…they all thought that I didn’t care, that I was happy with another while she was – ” Arthur’s chest constricts so painfully that he can barely speak, can barely breathe – and he tells himself it’s from anger, but the truth is, it’s something else entirely. “Is that what they think of me? Is that what _everyone_ thinks of me?”

“No, Arthur, they – ” Merlin is frantically shaking his head – “they don’t, they just…they didn’t understand…”

“But you knew,” Arthur cuts him off. “You knew I had no idea. You didn’t say anything.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

Merlin’s crying again but Arthur doesn’t care. He can’t stand the sight of him a moment longer. He turns his head away. “Leave me.”

“Arthur, please…”

“ _Leave._ ”

Merlin sniffles but he obeys, slowly picking himself off the ground and walking back the way he came in silence. Arthur doesn’t watch him go.

The sounds of his footsteps fade. In the distance, voices echo faintly for a while, before they fade, too. And through it all, Arthur stays right where he is, holding the same ring and thinking of the same things, as the sky turns dark above him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The mulled wine warms him from the inside out, right to the tips of his toes, which are swimming inside his soaked boots. It makes his face hot and pinks his cheeks, but Sir Bryan feels none of the lighthearted contentment that usually comes with it.

Besides him, Lucien is a perfect reflection of his own melancholy. It is their habit to sit here on gloomy, rainy days such as this one, but it’s all wrong now. John is not with them. It takes all the pleasure out of it.

It’s five days short of a month since he was found dead in his bed. Bryan’s counted.

Arthur says that no man is worth their tears. But then, Arthur says a lot of things.

“Where do you think the king’s gone?” Lucien asks. He likely doesn’t much care either way, but Lucien can’t take long silences. And _silence_ , unfortunately, seems to be everyone’s preference today.

Bryan shrugs. “Probably off to find himself another bride.”

Lucien presses his lips together. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Bryan retorts. “Everyone’s saying it.” Even so, he still keeps his voice to a soft whisper as he speaks. He bends his head closer to Lucien’s, too, as if that will help keep the conversation just between them.

“Well, then they should all be ashamed of themselves, too,” Lucien says. “Arthur is not like that.”

Bryan almost rolls his eyes.

Lucien adheres wholly to that principle of knighthood which moves them to love and defend their king with their dying breath. John used to be that way, too, though Bryan remains convinced that he used to be that way not because it was in his nature or a fundamental part of his convictions, but only because Gwen was.

On occasions such as these, and for his part, Bryan rather feels the urge to point out that Arthur himself preaches that, rather than follow him blindly, they should have an independent mind, and hold him to the same standard as any man, and question his actions when their honor compels them to. So, the way Bryan sees it, and when you really think about it, all he’s doing is just listening to his king.

“His actions speak for themselves,” he says.

“Yes, and they are that of a good king.”

“We almost went to war twice this year.”

“ _Almost_ ,” Lucien repeats, like that one, little word signifies his victory. “He’s stopped it both times.”

“Aye,” Bryan says, “though it’s not so much that he stopped it, but that he started it _._ ” More quietly still, he adds, “It’s _how_ he stopped it.”

Not the one with Caerleon. That one was entirely honorable, and Bryan had been there to see it with his own eyes. Up on that cliff face, struggling to catch a look over his brothers’ shoulders as the king fought and defeated Queen Annis’s champion, a man twice his size, then spared his life in a gesture of mercy and peace. Like a good king.

Bryan had stood and watched then, just as he had stood and watched in the courtyard, as the king broke his word to a princess, then, calmly, justified it with his immense love for a dead woman.

It’s not that he lied, or that he changed his mind. Bryan understands poor judgement. He understands lying to get out of a mistake. He’s done it himself. It’s not that Arthur lied. It’s that he used Gwen.

Even Lucien can’t deny that. He casts his eyes down, staring into the murky depths of his wine. He gets that way, really quiet, when he knows he’s been bested in a fight. Because Bryan is right, if maybe only just this once, and deep down, they both know it. And the truth hurts.

“He may be a good king,” Bryan whispers, “but I am starting to wonder if he is a good man.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur doesn’t remember how he gets back to Camelot.

One moment, he is sitting by the pyre in the dark; the next, it is morning and he is moving. He blinks, and he is on his horse, kicking its shins. He blinks again, and he is riding through the gates of the city. The skies are grey and ominous, threatening rain again.

The journey’s felt like a dream, slippery and unreal. Four shadows followed him the entire way; they did not speak, and he did not acknowledge them.

Part of him feels like he is still walking in a dream as he dismounts in the courtyard, and a page takes the reins of his horse. As he climbs the steps of the palace and attracts curious looks and polite greetings, none of which he returns. As he steps inside his chambers and Merlin runs up behind him, asking if he needs him, if he can be of service. Arthur shuts the door in his face.

He briefly closes his eyes in the silence, taking a deep breath.

It’s not that Merlin lied. It’s that he lied about Guinevere.

Arthur reaches into his pocket, and pulls out her betrothal band, running his fingers over the cold, bent metal. It’s like it wakes him.

Like it makes everything catch up with him again. It slams right back into him, like a blow that knocks all the air out of his chest. He told himself, again and again, he kept telling himself that it would be all right. That he could make amends, that she would understand – and she would forgive his mistakes, and he would take her home, and it would be all right. Everything would be all right. He just had to find her.

It was _one_ thing.

He just had to do that one, little thing, and he couldn’t. She needed him, and he wasn’t there.

_I’m sorry_ , he thinks, desperately – like that will make it better, like it will make her come back. Like she’s just cross with him for doing the wrong thing, and if he just says he’s sorry, if he just makes it right, then she’ll come back.

He’ll do anything. He’ll give up his crown, his kingdom, his lands, his riches. It doesn’t matter. He loves her more than any of it. He’ll give it all. He’ll go to the ends of the Earth, he’ll make any sacrifice.

He draws endless bargains in his head, except none of them _work_ , none of them bring her back. None of them _can_ bring her back, because he sent her away. She never did anything wrong, and he sent her away, he made her leave. He did it, and now – now she’s –

Arthur gasps, struggling for breath again.

What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to do if she’s gone?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Agravaine walks briskly through the halls of the palace, headed towards the king’s chambers. Night has started to fall, and Arthur still has not come to speak with him.

He never told him where it was he had gone. The knights haven’t uttered a word either, appearing mostly glum and aggrieved. It won’t do. Agravaine hates it when Arthur keeps him out of things. It diminishes his purpose here. It might present a foil to Morgana’s plans.

When he comes to Arthur and voices his indignation, however, he will say that it only out of concern. He is his most trusted advisor after all. He should not be left in the dark.

He reaches the doors and knocks with purpose, but there is no response. Agravaine frowns. He is sure he saw Arthur headed this way. He knocks again.

And again, there is no answer. Now curious, Agravaine slowly pushes on the door to let himself in. No candles have been lit inside the chambers yet, and the room is teetering on the edge of darkness.

He doesn’t see Arthur right away and takes a few steps further in, his frown deepening. Then he finally spots him.

Arthur is in the sleeping quarters, sitting on the ground with his back propped against the trunk at the foot of his bed – like he maybe tried to get to this desk, and never quite managed to get that far.

“Arthur?” Agravaine calls out, and the concern in his voice almost sounds genuine. “What’s the matter?”

Arthur lifts his head to look at him, and it almost knocks Agravaine back a step. His eyes are red and swollen, his face ashen. He’s sitting on the floor crying like a boy.

Agravaine comes closer. “Has something happened, my lord?”

Arthur opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Then Agravaine glances down at his hands, and freezes. It doesn’t look quite right, like it’s been damaged, but he knows it. He remembers when Ygraine used to wear it.

“Is that…”

“It’s…it’s Guinevere’s.” Arthur’s voice is rough, cracked. “I…I found it, in…in Escetir, in the village where she was.”

“Is…is that where you were?”

Arthur slowly nods, swallowing. “I thought…I thought I would find her.”

_How could you possibly find a dead woman_ , Agravaine thinks, uncomprehending, before it truly sinks in.

“You did not know,” he realizes.

Arthur shakes his head from side to side now, his lip trembling. And it all suddenly makes sense in Agravaine’s mind – why he seemed to bear it so well, that Guinevere of Camelot is dead, when the world is worthless to him without her.

Agravaine should be glad to see him like this. It should fill him with long-awaited satisfaction and pleasure, to see Uther’s son – that thing whose existence killed his sister and took his brother – in such pieces.

Instead, he finds himself saying, “I am sorry, Arthur.” He almost means it.

Arthur _sobs_.

It is the most pitiful thing that Agravaine has ever seen. And he has seen it before.

Over twenty-five years ago, Uther sat just like this, night descending around him as tears stained his cheeks, talking about death, about losing the woman he loved, and blaming sorcerers, saying, _‘It’s their fault.’_

“It’s my fault,” Arthur says.

Words die on Agravaine’s tongue. If only just this once, for just this one moment, he looks down at the boy, and sees not Uther, but his darling sister – and he thinks it, for the first and only time. _What would Ygraine say?_

Shaking the thought away, he collects himself, and says what he is supposed to. “You were deceived, Arthur.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur’s voice is hollow. “But I’m still the one who...I’m the one who sent her away. She...she had nowhere to go, and I knew that, and I still – ” His face twists as if in pain, fresh tears running down his cheeks. “She begged me. She begged me not to make her leave, and I didn’t listen, I…I still made her go. Right now, I can’t remember why. Why didn't I just let her stay?” He draws a quiet, shaky breath. "She was everything to me."

Agravaine has nothing to say to that. Perhaps he should offer more platitudes, perhaps the role he plays here demands it; more words that are meant to comfort, but that will only twist the knife in deeper. He should find those words, and deal them to Arthur like blows. Only, no words come to mind.

For all that this is the moment he waited for, the moment he longed to give Morgana, Agravaine has nothing to say except to repeat, “I truly am sorry, Arthur.”

He leaves the king where he found him, sitting and crying on the floor, and shuts the door quietly on his way out.

Once night does fall, he rides to find Morgana.

She lifts her gaze to him when he enters her hovel. The fire she’s lit casts her half in shadow, making the lines of her face seem gaunt and carved from stone. But her eyes are alight.

He tells her everything, and her face seems to come alive, too, a smile touching her lips. It makes her happy, and it should. For once, her plans have worked out the way she desired. Camelot is weak. Her Southron army amasses. Guinevere of Camelot is dead. And Arthur…

“You were right, my lady,” Agravaine says. “This time…he is truly broken.”


	9. Once and Future

**_One month ago_ **

Three days before Ostara, Sira walks over muddy ground, soft from both rain and blood.

The humid, putrid mixture attracts frogs from the nearby marsh. They croak faintly, leaping through the air by the tree line.

Maebh is collecting them, stuffing them in the pockets of her faded, grey robes. Sira has long ago stopped wondering why Maebh is the way she is. Why her powerful magic has kept her alive for so long, but let her body decay of old age. Why her ancient memory serves her so well with spells and Druids’ stories, but cannot take in a single new name - leaving her, in the raid’s aftermath, to just keep shouting for the blacksmith’s daughter instead of asking for her by name.

The spring breeze that lifts Sira’s now greying hair carries with it the smell of burning flesh from the pyre that was lit. It burns so tall, so bright, that it nearly outshines the morning sun.

Even as she nears the pyre, Gogfran brings two more bodies to it. He heaves them off his massive shoulders to toss them in and mumble a prayer, as he has for all those who have come before. It is a thankless task, to carry the dead, but Gogfran, tall like a tree and built just the same, is invariably the man for the job. There is, however, only one body Sira will not let him take.

He nods to her and retreats silently, back to gather more. He steps over the debris that gathered when he, with his great strength, pushed logs, rocks and even a boulder out of the way as they frantically searched this village after the attack. Not that it did them any good.

Sira truly thought they would make it. She was so sure, when she first received word, when she first ran into Iseldir’s tent at camp, knife already in hand and palm out, asking him to use blood magic to find where her daughter was – she was so sure they would get to her before anything befell her, before anything bad happened. They were just a moment too late. Just _one_.

Sira looks around. She imagines this village was quite nice, before. There is not much left of it now. Nor many.

She casts her eyes down to her hands as she stands by the flames, and winds the string she holds over her fingers. The betrothal band that hangs at the end of it catches the light of the fire. She turns the ring over in her hand once, remembers when it used to rest on Ygraine’s finger, then tosses it into the pyre.

“We are ready,” Ifrran’s voice reaches her, though she’s smelled him long before, that scent that seems to follow him wherever he goes, of the herbs, medicines and incense that he uses in his healing. But even he, unfortunately, cannot heal the dead.

Sira closes her eyes. “How long before we reach it?”

“A day and a half,” Ifrran says. “If you hurry.”

“Iseldir has not changed his mind?”

“Our kind rarely does.” She hears the smile in Ifrran’s voice. “Have you?”

Sira opens her eyes again, watching the fire lick at the bodies of all those unfortunate souls. “No. Do you still remember what you must do?”

Ifrran hesitates. “Yes,” he says at length. “But are you sure it is what you want?”

“I have no doubt.”

“There might still be people who care for her in Camelot,” his tone gentles. “When they hear this, it will grieve them.”

_Druids,_ she thinks. So soft-hearted. That’s why the Pendragons have hunted down them so easily. They never want to spill blood themselves. They never want to cause pain and hurt. Always dreaming about peace.

“Everyone in Camelot made their choice,” Sira says, “when they abandoned her. I do not care why they did it. Now they must bear the consequences all the same.”

“Even your son?”

“Like I said, Ifrran.”

“What about the one who warned you of her banishment?” he asks. “Gaius?”

Sira falters for only a moment.

“And I will forever be grateful to him,” she says. “But Gaius, of all people, would understand. After all, it is also he who warned me that my daughter now has an enemy in Morgana Pendragon.”

She slowly shakes her head. Who knows what others there are?

“I do not know how, or when, but it is because of that _boy_ ,” she grits out, “in Camelot. Yet he and his are the kind to leave her alone to die.” Her nostrils flare. “I will not have it.”

The Pendragons are a curse, every last one of them. Every last one of those who follow them are no better. They’ve caused her daughter enough harm. No more. And no one – not a king, not a high priestess – will chase after someone they do not know to look for.

“So, I want it done.” Sira squares her shoulders with renewed resolve. “Have it heard in every camp, every tavern, every inn, from here to Ismere.”

And it will, after all, be nothing but the God’s honest truth.

“Tell everyone,” she says. “Guinevere of Camelot is dead.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two days before Ostara, Isolde carefully guides the horse that drags the cart over rough, uneven terrain, petting its muzzle to soothe it when it neighs in protest.

The path they are on is neither the most ideal nor the fastest one to where they must go, but, under the circumstances, it is the only one that works. The only one that guarantees they will not be seen.

Isolde is even glad for it. While she and Tristan could talk their way out of being caught smuggling wares across Camelot, a body is harder to explain.

Though she wasn’t supposed to, Isolde took a peek under the sheet that covers it. There is something almost unnatural about it, about the way it lies as if frozen in time. Isolde suspects sorcery.

But she still cannot explain it – why a, by all accounts, ordinary dead girl requires all of _this._

The whole thing is shrouded in mystery. From the message Iseldir’s raven delivered to her and Tristan, to being asked to meet at the border for the purpose of smuggling a body across it, to the place where they were told to go. Isolde doesn’t even know the girl’s name.  

Even the group she travels with is unfamiliar. Apart from Iseldir, she knows no one. One of them must be a Druid herself, judging by the markings on her. She is an old thing, with thin white hair and milky eyes - she appears so old, in fact, that Isolde practically expects her bones to dissolve into dust at any moment. There was another one, that they left at the border, but who must have been a Druid, too; a man with a black beard and a balding head, who walked with a limp and smelled strongly of medicines.

There is another man who does travel with them, but Isolde cannot guess what _he_ is. He is twice her height, and three times her width, with eyes that are set just a little too close together and a face that just isn’t _quite_ human.

When he catches her stealing glances at him, Iseldir tells her, “His name is Gogfran. He is a half-giant. Likely the last of his kind.”

The last of them is a woman – that Isolde, again, has never seen before – and who keeps quiet the whole time, except for when the cart jostles too much, and even then she only, senselessly, says, “Careful.”

Her long dark hair is curly and loose, streaked with grey here and there. She has a sort of untamed look about her, but her eyes – if her expression weren’t cold, Isolde thinks – might seem beautiful and kind. She gets the sense the woman is related to the dead girl, somehow.

They reach their destination, and for all that Isolde has accepted to carry out this favor for Iseldir without question, she is immensely relieved that her role is done. She does not know what she has participated in, but she thinks it’s probably one of those things that you would rather not be a part of.

She and Tristan swear to never utter a word about it – not to anyone, not ever – and Iseldir thanks them, then bids them goodbye. They cut the cart loose from the horse, and the half-giant takes hold of its handles, moving it closer to the shore.

Isolde’s eyes still track it as it slowly moves away, its wheels leaving deep grooves in the soft ground.

Why this girl, she wonders, even as they leave, even as she pretends she doesn’t. Why this lake?

 

 

* * *

 

 

One day before Ostara, Morgana sits by the fire at dusk, staring sightlessly at the flames that cast long shadows across her hovel.

She went to see Helios in his maze of caves, to get reports on his progress. He gave her news of his latest raid in Escetir. He has ten more men, he said, and Morgana’s ire rose. It’s not enough. Anger festered inside her for it as she left, but then she passed some of those men of his as they received supplies from a group of stodgy, greying smugglers, and she heard it.

She heard it again when she went to visit her potions master, hidden deep inside the woods. The man’s patrons hid behind their hoods just as she did, huddling together by the shelves, and Morgana caught the words they whispered amongst themselves.

_Did you hear,_ they said, muttering it like secrets in each other’s ears, _Guinevere of Camelot is dead._

When the air shifts behind her now, her hovel growing colder than even the wastelands of Ismere, Morgana thinks she might have even expected it. Every sound is drowned out. The fire beneath the cauldron stops, blue and orange wisps suspended in the air like the contorted fingers of a clawed hand, as if frozen in time. Only she moves.

Morgana turns her head – and there she is.

Right where the gaze falls, glowing like an apparition even in the dark. She is covered in blood, from her throat to the hem of her skirt, from the ends of her hair to the tips of her fingers. And that old, servant’s dress she wears – oh, it’s so familiar.

She’s got that doe-eyed look about her, like she’s lost, confused. And Morgana wonders – does she know? Does she know she is nothing but a ghost, barely more than a fast-fading memory?

Do spirits know that they are dead?

“Morgana,” she says, and her voice is at such odds with the rest of her. It still sounds like a voice of the living, when she and everything around her is dead.

Morgana slowly rises from her chair and comes around it, taking a step closer. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Guinevere of Camelot,” she sneers. “Dead at last.”

Gwen’s brow furrows before she glances down at herself, and for a moment, it’s almost as if she is surprised. As if she doesn’t understand it, then remembers. She lifts her head, and the doe-eyed look is gone.

Morgana’s smile widens. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Ever since she saw her in her dreams, up on that throne. She hates her. She’s hated her since that day.

And Gwen asks her – like it’s a question she’s been waiting to ask, like she’s gone to her grave without having an answer – to tell her what it was she did wrong.

“It’s not what you did,” Morgana says, “it’s what you…were destined to do.”

_Were_ , she thinks again. It only, truly sinks in then. Gwen is dead. She will never be queen. Those dreams they will never come true.

There is no reason to hate her anymore.

And the terrible, awful thing is that looking at her now, seeing her like this, doesn’t make Morgana happy.

It’s not about talking to ghosts. She talks to ghosts all the time. In her head, she hears her mother singing her lullabies as she bounces her on her knee as a child, she listens to the stories that her father, that Gorlois, used to tell her; she sees her sister, and she promises that her sacrifice was not in vain. Sometimes, she even sees Uther, and tells him that he had what he deserved.

But it’s not that.

It’s that the memory of the dream and the throne and the crown upon Gwen’s head fades from Morgana’s mind, and that all she can think about instead is that servant’s dress she wears. That dress that comes from a time when they were both younger, and happier; when they were friends, and Gwen used to bring her flowers.

That’s what Morgana hates now. It’s that it makes her _sad._

Gwen looks sad, too, even as she continues to talk and talk and talk. And when she finally fades, disappearing into nothing, that wretched sadness still clings to Morgana like a curse that she can’t break.

It will pass, she tells herself, it will. Like it did with Uther. It will pass, and she will remember that this is what she wanted.

Time resumes its course again, the fire crackling softly in the silence that Gwen left behind. Morgana stares at the spot where she saw her last a moment longer, then returns to her chair and sits by the fire again.

She stares sightlessly into the flames that cast long shadows across her hovel, as dusk gives way to the night, thinking about flowers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Ostara, Elyan ends his journey on the shores of the lake of Avalon.

He has ridden relentlessly for three days, since the dawn of the morning when he left Camelot. The shame of it still sticks to his skin like dirt. But he was woken that day not by pain, or nightmares, but a hollow feeling, an emptiness, deep inside his chest – and he just knew. Just as he had known Father had died long before word ever reached him.

He felt her leave, too.

In turn, perhaps without really thinking, he left Camelot, and rode to find their mother. He had never told anyone that he knew where he should look for her. Not even Gwen.

The thought of his sister tormented him the whole way to the Druid camp by the northern borders, where Mother has friends. The Druids met him in the shadows of the woods, their own faces hidden in the shadows of their cloaks, and told him that if he sought to find his mother, then he should set for Avalon.

So here he is.

Dismounting, he takes a few steps closer. There are fresh tracks where the water meets the land. One set of boot prints leads away from the water and another leads to it, as if someone has come out of the lake then gone back in again. Beside the boot prints, there is another set of smaller tracks, left by bare feet, coming out of the water.

Elyan looks across its clear, still surface, all the way to the center, where the isle of Avalon, with its tall, mighty slab of engraved stone, sits in the middle of the lake. The question is, why has his mother come here?

When he gets his answer, his first thought is that he’s gone mad.

His mother shows him no favor and little joy at seeing him again, but she does tell him where to go. There are newly set tents in the woods by the lake and Elyan slowly walks to the one she has pointed to, his armor creaking in the silence.

He lifts the flap, takes one step inside, and freezes.

She sits with her back to him, holding up a small mirror with one hand. Though she is dressed in fresh, dry clothes, her feet are bare and the ends of her long hair are still wet. The light in the tent shifts and, in the mirror, Elyan catches a glimpse of her face.

It is her.

She must catch a reflection of him staring the same way, because she spins around on the stool, meeting his eyes. Elyan stumbles back a step.

“Gwen,” he chokes. “Gwen…”

Her brow creases slightly, and Elyan waits, his heart pounding, for her to speak. When she does, it is only to ask a single question.

“Who are you?”


End file.
